Prometheus Bound
by Dius Corvus
Summary: Harry survives an unbearable summer and returns to Hogwarts to learn secrets about himself that he really could have done without. He’s lost his sight, all illusions about his parentage, and now will he lose himself? COMPLETE
1. The Worst Summer Ever

_A/N: I own nothing at all that you recognize. Everything else is mine. _

_Summary: Post OotP, pre HBP though with some major HBP concepts thrown in. Harry survives an unbearable summer and returns to Hogwarts to learn secrets about himself than he really could have done without. He's lost his sight, all illusions about his parentage, and now will he lose himself?_

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**PROMETHEUS BOUND**

**by**

**Dius Corvus **

_"...Choose, or that I should tell  
__Thy woes to come, or who shall set me free."  
__-- Aeschylus, _Prometheus Bound

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**Chapter 1: The Worst Summer Ever**

Harry cracked open an eye and gaze at where the window was, felt the waning sunlight on his face. Sunset. Strange how people liked to presume that sunrise was the time where the day was laid out in promises. Twilight was the time for that, when the sun finally closed its garish eye, and when one finally realized that time was short. Promises to another day, made as the stars awoke, gasping.

_I am an idiot_. He closed his eyes and let his breath escape, ease its way out of his parched body, through the cavity bound by his fragile ribs.

He should have known. He shouldn't have turned a blind eye to it all.

When the letter announcing Voldemort's return had come, he shouldn't have underestimated Vernon. Should have understood exactly what those wild looks, those crazy chuckles meant.

But he'd ignored them (Gryffindor arrogance), thinking that Vernon could do no worse than what he did before (Gryffindor foolishness). After all, though he definitely hadn't received any love or affection, the Dursleys had been too terrified to touch him too much. (Gryffindor blindness.)

And now.

He had been sleeping with his Potions textbook across his gently moving chest. He remembered that the windows had been open to let a breeze in. Crickets were chirping, a symphonic cacophony that trickled into the dingy room… And then hands had grabbed him before he could scramble for his wand, had handcuffed him, struck him across the face, made him taste his blood, made him watch his wand snap in half.

And Hedwig. Hedwig in those pudgy hands, flapping frantically, weakly, until the voice growled, "Write to those other freaks, boy. Make sure to tell them that you're well, and that your little owl is too sick to give them the messages they want."

By the time he realized the solemnity of his predicament, it was already too late. And he couldn't have, couldn't have let Hedwig die when he might have saved her.

Not that it mattered now anymore.

He'd written the letter, watched Vernon install the bars. Saw the grin, the terrifying, terrifying smile. He would rather have faced Voldemort. Felt the blows pelt his back, heard himself cry. Heard Hedwig's hoots and the snap of a wing. The laugh, worse than Voldemort's would ever be. Then the slam of the door.

Silence.

Petunia had come in late that night and given him water to drink. He had wanted her to call the police, contact Dumbledore, but one look at her stiff, turned face, and he knew she would never.

The next day, another letter, another beating, and when Petunia came, she stared at his back with fascination. The next night, after a stinging black eye, she didn't come. Nor the night after. And two days later, she handed her husband the belt while she stayed near the door, watching with glittering eyes. And Harry had bit back every scream and shriek until his uncle cracked one of his ribs and shouted hoarsely for him to scream for Pet and he'd screamed and the high keening scream of an infant in its cradle and he'd screamed

It happened, a week later. His birthday. A little bon fire merrily burning in the yard as colorful parcels, one by one, were dropped into the flame. Vernon and Petunia sipped their wine or punch of lemonade and watched vindictively until Petunia had whispered something into her husband's ear. And then Vernon had stomped upstairs into Harry's room and took Hedwig out into the yard, snapped her neck with a sickening _crack_, and tossed her body into the flames.

He'd never forget the way the fire took the white feathers one by one, the limp form withering into ashes.

The next day, they took his sight as well.

They were watching television. He could hear the sounds floating upstairs. Of course, those sounds were always garbled by the ones from Dudley's rooms, the sounds of _other_ tapes. Harry felt that he should be grateful that Dudley didn't have the same tastes his parents had.

He shifted his hand, reaching up to touch his face. Numb. At least not hurting like hell the way his ribs were. Damn it all, if only he could breathe correctly. Right now he could control his breathing, letting it go in and out, slowly, painfully, but whenever Vernon came, he always ended gasping for breath, unable to stop the convulsions even when he felt the blinding pain in his ribs tearing his mind into darkness. If only he could breathe.

If only he could see.

Tears wouldn't come, and he wondered if the glands that made tears were dead as well. Probably were, judging from the numbness and the lack of sting on his swollen cheeks. He wondered if Pomfrey could find a way to bring those tissues back to life.

But nothing could bring the dead back to life, Harry knew. Not even Sirius.

'Course, there was the little matter of staying alive until school started again…

How _could_ they, though? Didn't they have _brains_? Couldn't they _tell_ that he was sounding like a robot in those letters Dursley had made him write? (The word Dursley sounded like—like a euphemism for Death-Eater. Or maybe it was the other way around.) Wasn't he the Boy-Who-Lived, the Subject-of-the-Prophecy—wasn't he even important enough for them to send someone, anyone, to check on, once or twice?

The tears that would've been of self pity and grief were rapidly shifting to anger and despair. The one good thing about not being able to cry was that the inevitable deluge of self-pity died halfway, leaving him slightly bewildered, but calmer. Clearer.

Right now, that was what he needed. To keep calm, to survive this. He was a survivor. Briefly, he entertained himself by wondering about Voldemort's reaction after knowing that a simple Muggle had done what he could not—kill Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die. He wondered, with faint spiteful pleasure, what Dumbledore would feel. He knew what Snape would feel—pleased as punch. Same with Malfoy. But Ron and Hermione…

_Stop_. There, that was forbidden ground. Because no matter how reasonable he tried to be, no matter what he told himself, their silence felt like the greatest betrayal of all.

But it was stupid, stupid. He couldn't blame them. No, and perhaps they'd be safer with him gone. Perhaps.

He snorted. _Let's see how my inner eye is working_, Harry thought. _First, Ron'll go off on a guilt streak, and Hermione will tearfully logic it out before sobbing like a dishrag, and then they'll go full angst for a few months, and they'll comfort each other, and after about a year of making total idiots of themselves they'll move on_. _Only wish I'd be around to see, but I know I won't be a ghost. Mum and dad and Sirius are all there, and Voldemort isn't—seems like a good deal to me_…

A groan nearly escaped his lips at the strange ache that permeated his body. Strange, he'd never felt this kind of aching before. It was as though his body was shifting, pulling itself, torturously molding itself into something new. He had felt something like that in his magic, too, when summer just began, but he now couldn't feel anything besides the pain. _Wouldn't it please Vernon to know he's probably beaten all the magic out of me too_…

"_Blooodd_…"

Harry tensed and winced as the handcuffs cut into his wrist some more. Had he imagined that voice?

"_Is it Hisss blood_…"

Harry froze. The voice was there, unmistakable, but who could it be? And who was His? And then he realized it, and would have slapping his forehead had his hands been free. The voice belonged to a snake. He relaxed and lay very still, hearing a slight sliding sound somewhere near the window. Strange, how comforting it felt to be in the presence of a snake.

"_What iss thisss_?" the voice, lazy and languid, continued, closer this time.

_It's me, bloody Harry Potter_, Harry thought.

"_Food_…? _Too wet to be foood_…"

_It's called blood, you ruddy reptile_.

He froze when he felt something cool and smooth slither across his face. When it passed over his right cheek, where the bone had been shattered, he stiffened and jerked involuntarily, feeling the pain sting furiously as the handcuffs dug into his wrists again.

"_A human boy_… _with Hisss blood, Hisss blood_…"

"_Who's 'He_?'" Harry demanded, still shaken from the unexpected contact. The hiss that escaped his lips felt dry and rough in the air, and he was very glad Parseltongue did not require the usage of vocal chords.

Silence ensued, broken only by the garbled sounds from the Dursleys' televisions.

"_You ssspeak the Old Tongue, boy_," the snake stated. "_Who are you to have Hiss blood and speak the Old Tongue?_"

"_Who is this 'He' that you are blabbering about_…" Harry replied crossly before his blood ran cold. Voldemort. He should have known the moment he heard the snake. This was clearly Voldemort's snake, sent here to kill him, or spy on him, or both. _I wonder how Voldemort smuggled his snake through the wards_, Harry thought. _Actually, I wonder if the wards work at all_.

"_Do you not know, boy_?" the snake asked rather haughtily.

"_Of course I know_," Harry replied coldly. "_Your master, Voldemort_."

A series of spits and hisses filled the air, and Harry felt something wave above his face. "_That arrogant half-blood, my _massster_? Where are your sensesss, boy? If anything, he owesss allegiance to _usss…"

Harry felt something in him relax before bewilderment took over. "_Who's us_? _And who's this He_?"

"_Ssssalazar, it issss He_… _and we are His serpents_…"

"_Slytherin_?"

"_Yessss. And you have his blood, boy. You are his Heir_."

Harry would have laughed if his ribs had allowed it. "_Sorry to disappoint, but I'm in Gryffindor_."

The snake did not sound perturbed. "_The difference between Gryffindor bravery and Slytherin cunning is a thin line. Many do not sssee it until much later, and others do not ssssee it at all_…"

Harry snorted and winced at the pain he felt on his face. "_Still, you're mistaken. When I was one, Voldemort attempted to kill me with the Killing Curse, but only ended up giving some of him to me. You're probably smelling the bit he gave me. And there's no point telling me to see that fine line of yours. I am currently blind_." He couldn't prevent the bitterness from creeping into his voice.

Harry heard movement above him and felt a flickering over his blank eyes. "_No need too sssound ssso morbid. I, myself, cannot ssssee much_… _Currently, you sssay, though. Isss this blindness a temporary thing you are going through_?"

Harry snorted again and coughed before he could stop himself. Taking a moment to ease himself out of the pain, he replied, "_No, nothing like that, but if—once I get back to Hogwarts, there might be a way to cure my sight._"

"_There may be no cure_."

"_No, there may not_," Harry agreed, shivering as he felt himself sliding into despair. "_But I like to think that there is_."

Harry thought he heard the snake shrug, as strange as that notion seemed. "_How did you go blind, then?_"

He paused, and memories swamped his mind against his will. His breathing quickened unconsciously. The wheezing sound of air in and out the battered cavity of his chest slurred and garbled upon itself as he remembered the hot-iron pain, the pain that took him as his world exploded into darkness. He swallowed and his throat, ravaged from screaming, protested weakly. "_My—uncle. A Muggle, and he hates my kind_." _Freaks_, he heard again, and darkness deeper than his sightlessness clutched him tightly. _Disgusting freaks_.

Harry heard the dry scraping of snake against wood. "_But you are a wizard! Sssalazar's heir, even though you may be a half-blood._"

"_I know_," Harry replied wearily. "_It—I didn't think he would go so far. In the past, he was always too scared to do something—something like this, but_…" Harry trailed off into silence. There was no use drudging up the ifs and might-have-beens, the perhapses and maybes. It was over, and there was nothing he could do to change it. "_I was very stupid. Can you help me_?"

"_You are Ssssalazar's heir_. _We are bound to you._"

"_Thanks_," Harry replied, though not believing for a moment that he really was the heir of Slytherin. "_How quickly can you move_?"

"_Very quickly, if the need comes, my lord_," the snake hissed.

_My lord? Where did that come from?_ Harry wondered momentarily. It rather reminded him, a bit queasily, of Voldemort. "_Then contact my neighbor. I will write a note, and take it to her, pleassse. She is a Squib and knowssss of me; she will find people to help_."

"_Very well_," the snake hissed. "_The note_?"

"_Take a sheet, or something, and—can you write? If you can, just dip your tail in my blood, and_…"

"_No, my Lord, I cannot._"

"_Then you'll just have to get enough blood on my finger_—"

Pounding from downstairs, grumbling up the stairs—

"_Quick! Leave_," Harry hissed, quivering. "_Go before my uncle comes_—"

"_My lord_—"

The second floor quivering under the massive weight. "That disgusting freak… I'll show him, I will—"

"_Are you gone_?" Harry demanded frantically.

The door slammed open, and Harry flinched.

"_Too late_," Harry heard distinctly, though from somewhere rather far off. _Damn it, he'd better have gone_, Harry thought shakily. He heard a heavy footstep and flinched again, huddling towards the wall as best as he could. His ribs hurt, oh God, they hurt—

"Who were you talking to, freak?" Vernon growled. "Answer me, boy. Answer me!"

Harry shivered uncontrollably. "No one, sir," he answered dully, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice.

Vernon grunted. "Teach you not to lie to me, freak…" Footsteps, heavy, and then the crack of the belt. Harry jumped at the sound, and coughed. He felt blood on his tongue. More footsteps, light and quick, those of a woman's, as the blanket was ripped from his body, naked except for his bloody boxers. _So she's coming to watch_, Harry thought, seeing in his mind's eye Petunia leaning against the doorway with widened eyes.

He braced himself, waiting for the whip to streak out of the air and fall across his thin body. But before any of that could happen, he heard Petunia shriek. "Vernon! Oh, Vernon—a snake, a snake!"

Harry heard a hissing, the unmistakable hiss of a striking serpent. Harry wished desperately that he could _see_. Petunia was screaming, her shrill, grating voice getting in the way of hearing what was going on— A clank, the belt dropping to the floor— Then Vernon's terror-strung bellow, warbling through the air like a drunken hippo—

"Get it off! Tell it to get off, freak!" Vernon roared in pain. "Get off! I'll kill you, you freak, I'll wring your bloody neck—"

_Thump_, the sound of a body falling—Harry jumped when he heard Vernon's voice again, much closer: "Poison, Pet—call… call the ambulance, Pet—"

"But then they'd _know_!" she cried shrilly. "They'd _know_ about _him_!"

"_PETUNIA_!" Vernon roared again, but his voice was heavy and slurred. "Call… Pet—tunia… call…"

Then, the sound of snake-skin over the floor, and Petunia let out a horrified shriek that echoed through the house. The stumbling stampede of frantic over the floor, Dudley exclaiming in shock, Petunia's hysterical screams—

"_My lord_."

Harry let out a breath. "_Thank you. What am I to call you_?"

"_You are my lord, I am your sssservant_." _Servant, serpent_, Harry thought.

"Call the cops, mum!" Dudley was yelling hysterically. "He'll kill us, he's probably coming right now—"

"But then they'd _know_!" Petunia pleaded.

"Then—then we won't let them know. They can't find out if he's gone…"

Harry shifted. "_Lisssten. Can you get my handcuffsss loose?_"

Harry heard the snake move across the floor. The following hiss was much closer to his ear. "_I know no magic, but you can free yoursssself, my lord_…"

Harry paused, listening. Dudley and Petunia's voices were hushed now. He caught a phrase or two—Vernon's something, and Dudley saying that he'd get it, he'd get the gun.

"_How do I do it_?" Harry asked.

"_Wandless magic? I do not know, my lord_…"

_Shit_, Harry thought. _Calm down, Potter, calm down now_. He took a deep breath, tuning out the thumping sound that echoed from downstairs. _I just have to unlock this and get rid of those bars—if I unlock these handcuffs, I'll probably be able to get a grip and get rid of those stupid bars_…

He licked his bloody lips and whispered, "_Alohomora_." The words passed like a gust of dry wind, and nothing happened. Not even a stirring deep down where he knew his magic was. Licking his cracked lips, he concentrated on his handcuffs, conjuring the last image he had to them, and imagined them unlocking, opening, imagined himself being able to move his hands down to ease the pain in his ribs, imagining his wrists free of the cruel, biting metal…

It was more of an anguished, angered cry than a command. "_Alohomora_…"

This time, he felt a spark jump from the deepest recesses of his being. It surged up like a fountain, and he felt the magic bubble out through his arms, his hands—

He shuddered as he felt the magic paused, gathering in his body, before—

_CLANK_.

A thump downstairs of Dudley jumping in fright, and Petunia's shriek.

Harry lay still for a moment, hearing Dudley's not-so-furtive steps downstairs resume, and Petunia's fierce whispers about how the windows suddenly unlocked.

"_What happened?_"

"_Your resssstraints fell_," the snake replied, a note of approval in its voice. "_And the barsss_… _Of you window. They are gone_."

_For a first attempt at wandless magic, I suppose that's pretty good_, Harry thought dazedly, too exhausted to move.

_Thump_. _Thump_. "_Hush_, Dudley-kins!"

Harry brought down his arms and moaned at the pain. _Damn it_. He shifted in his sticky bed, and bit back a scream as the pain in his ribs detonated like a bomb. Somehow, he got his feet onto the floor; somehow, by clutching the wall with quivering arms, he'd pulled himself into a semi-sitting position.

"_My lord_…" Harry heard as he pushed himself into a crouched position. His ribs hurt, oh God, it hurt, it hurt to breathe… He took a step forward, one hand on the cot. Darkness all around. He shifted his foot forward, slowly, and felt something meaty meet it. Vernon.

"_Is he_… _dead?_"

"_Yesss_."

Harry nodded slightly (he'd think about it later, he told himself) and, gritting his teeth to bite back the screams, stumbled the last few steps to the loose floorboard. Pain exploded, coloring his darkness with fireworks of agony… He heard whispering in the hallway: they must've heard him move, but he didn't care. His hands groped the floor until he felt the loose floorboard. He removed it with trembling fingers and took out his father's invisibility cloak.

"_Sssnake_," Harry hissed softly, trying to arrange the cloak over himself as best as he could. His arms were filled with lead. "_Can you still ssssee me?_"

"_Cover your right foot_," the snake replied from somewhere close by.

"_Hide with me_," Harry instructed as he drew in his foot, wincing the whole time. "_Don't_…_ don't ssstrike unless they get too close_…"

"_As you wish, my lord_," the serpent hissed, and Harry felt a cool presence slide under the watery cloak beside him.

Now, time to wait.

He hated not being able to see. He hated being in the dark, not knowing what was going on—he couldn't know if Dudley was on the clear other side of the room, or if a gun was pointed at his head right now.

_Calm down, Potter_, he told himself sternly.

_Thump_. Panting. One thing was sure though, Harry thought. Dudley would never know what it meant it meant to be quiet.

Petunia gave a little cry. "It's _gone_… that little freak too! What if—what if it's hiding somewhere in the house? Downstairs? Oh, Dudley-kins, in our _r-rooms_?"

Harry bit back his laughter as he heard Dudley begin hyperventilating.

"We—we—we'll have to hide it," Petunia whimpered. "We have to hide it, so they won't know…"

_Hide what_? Harry thought, but he heard footsteps approaching—he braced himself, and felt the snake tense by his side—but then he heard something enormously heaving dragged over the floor.

Petunia's voice was harder this time. "Dudley, help me. We can't let them know, can't let them find out…"

Realization struck._ Perfect solution, there_, Harry thought dryly. _Bury Vernon's body, and pretend it never happened_… More shifting, dragging sounds over the floor. There seemed to be some difficulty in getting Vernon's body through the doorway until Dudley finally recovered enough to help his mother.

Harry shivered. He had never felt so disgusted as he had right then, as he heard Petunia drag her husband, assisted by her son, to the garden to be buried, or maybe burned, so that the next day, they could say he was on vacation, or perhaps on a business trip… How could anybody do such a thing? To bury a husband in front of a son, just because the neighbors might see? The dead Dursley's abuse he could understand, if only in a twisted way, but this… He shivered.

When the thumping and sliding sounds were safely far away, he let out a slow sigh of relief. He shifted, biting back the surges of pain. A faint breeze trickled in through the window, stealing under the cloak and caressing his swollen face. His lips curved in the tiniest of smiles: the window was open, wide open, and the way to escape was clear… And he'd done it, with wandless magic he'd never been trained to do before. For the first in a very long time, he felt a flickering of fiery hope—

Then the doorbell rang.

Utter silence.

"_Can you tell who they are_?" Harry whispered, as quietly as he could, in the direction he thought the snake was.

"_They sssmell like wizardsss_…" the snake replied softly from somewhere next to the doorway. "_Minissstry wizardssss_…"

_SHIT_, Harry thought. He'd just done wandless magic—of course the Ministry would be here. To expel him. _At least Vernon saved them the trouble of breaking my wand_, Harry thought grimly. _I wonder what Petunia and Dudley will say to them_…

_Vernon is dead_, Harry thought again, feeling the realization sink in deeper. He felt torn between shaking in relief and or shaking with fear. He'd never be rid of the fear, he realized. But he had to stop thinking about that. Umbridge was still alive, and Fudge was still the Minister—and if they found him before the Order…

"_Ssssnake_," Harry hissed. "_Did you say that the barsss were gone_?"

"_Yessss, my lord_…"

Harry took a hesitant step forward. Darkness. "_Help me_…"

Incessant dangling from the doorbell.

Whimpers. "We're not here, Dudley-kins, we're not here, we're not here…"

_As if that'll make them stay away_, Harry snorted, wondering briefly where they had hidden Vernon's body. He nearly fell with the next step he took—his ribs were still aching, burning like crazy, and wrists hurt at the slightest touch, but at least he could semi-walk.

"_Here_…"

Harry followed the voice until his knee bumped into the wall and he nearly fell out the window in pain.

He remembered that there was a tree outside the bars of his window. He knew the tree intimately well: he used to climb it, and had climbed it twice that summer. Now, if he remembered correctly…

"_Ssserpent, where are you_?" Harry was groping the night air.

"_Here_… _Just reach forward sssslightly_…"

Harry leaned forward a bit and hissed as a leaf brushed his wrist. He wondered how bad they really were, but, not being able to see, he wouldn't know. Last time he checked, he were bloody and chaffed, but that was two days ago…

Suddenly, he felt again the acute loss of his vision. It hurt more than ever, even though he tried to will it away, telling himself that he would be cured, that he would be able to see again… No more reading. No more seeing his friends smile and laugh. No more watching the landscape fly past in the Hogwarts Express. No more seeing the glittery decorations of the yuletide season. No more flying swiftly, freely through the air as he reached for the glittering, golden snitch…

_No_, he told himself firmly. _I _am _going to see, I _will _see eventually, I will_—

The door downstairs banged open, and Harry nearly fell out of the window again.

He clambered onto the edge of the window, making sure he did not brush his lacerated back against the window. His invisibility cloak was still draped over his shoulder, but where the cloak touched, the sensation was not of stinging pain, but rather like cool water on a hot wound…

"_Lean out sssome more_," the snake instructed.

Harry hesitated, hands clammy as he gripped the gnarled branch tightly.

"…Potter's residence, this is…"

Another voice. "Got him good this time… not even Dumbledore'll be able to sneak him out—"

Harry took a deep a breath as his ribs would allow, and swung his foot out, thankful that the soles of his feet were untouched by Vernon's abuse. His foot connected with the branch, and he felt around until he was in a roughly standing position—he shifted his weight, gritting his teeth and terribly aware of his loudly pounding heart—he leaned out a little more and stepped out of the window…

"_Hurry, my lord_…"

Another bang from downstairs, and then Petunia's shriek.

_Good_, Harry thought. _Let Petunia hold them off for now_. He gritted his teeth as he held on for dear life, not knowing how to proceed. Damn it all for being blind.

"_What now, Ssserpent_?" he hissed.

Slithering from somewhere below him, and a touch on his foot. "_Move_… _thusss_…"

"…Potter? Oh—I d-d-don't know. Never h-heard of a boy with such a name, nasty thing—never heard of him, no, n-never…"

Harry gritted his teeth. The world did not exist; he was hanging, suspended, above eternal darkness. _Just a bit more_, he told himself, trying to still his trembling body.

"_Down_… _move your—no, my lord! Not there—left, left—_"

Harry's leg swung over nothing, and not even leaves brushed his leg—his hands were slipping, he was going to fall, he couldn't hold on anymore—god _damn_ it, where was the fucking branch—

_Thump. Thump_—two people climbing the stairs, muttering and grumbling—

—then his quivering hands let go. For a moment, he was suspended in space—and then his legs smashed into the ground, and his arms, struggling to find support, slashed against the rough bark of the tree trunk—tears where tears would have been, a scream if his throat had been capable of screaming—and then he was on his back, his wounds pulsing…

A swiftly falling darkness.

"…_My lord_!"

It felt so good to be… asleep—

Sounds… pounding up the stairs… a familiar voice, crying out…


	2. Nets of Fate

**Chapter 2: Nets of Fate**

Remus Lupin jumped so badly that he knocked his inkwell onto the crimson carpet of the headmaster's room. "Albus," he shouted, "the alarm has gone off!"

Albus Dumbledore drew his finger out of his pensieve before opening his eyes, blinking benignly. "What is it, Remus?"

"The alarm!" Remus repeated just as a shrill tinkling sound echoed through the room again.

The old wizard's eyes widened. He moved swiftly to the fireplace and threw in a pinch of green. "Ministry of Magic, Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts! Arthur Weasley, please. Tell him that Headmaster Dumbledore seeks him."

"What's the alarm for?" Remus asked, looking around for the source of jangling.

"The wards over Number 4, Privet Lane have been alerted," Dumbledore replied. "Arthur! I'm afraid there has been magic done at the Dursleys… yes, that's the place. I expect that certain people in the Ministry will have been waiting for such an opportunity. No, not Voldemort… The wards are still standing. But you know what to do… yes. Yes. Kingsley, too. Good luck, Arthur."

The connection closed, and the headmaster straightened slowly. _Sometimes, he seems old_, Remus thought._ Of course he seems old. He _is _old_.

"Albus," Remus asked worriedly. "Will Harry…"

"The Ministry will try," the headmaster said, sighing. "It might even succeed. No matter what justification Harry has, I'm afraid he'll find it hard to escape the Ministry's clutches this time…"

qpqpqp

Dolores Umbridge watched her two Aurors knock down the door to Number 4, Privet Drive with a hard gleam of triumph. _This will teach that brat a lesson_, she thought, a smile on her lips. She had been waiting for just this kind of chance, just this kind of opportunity, and it had presented itself to her on a silver platter.

Her smile widened. She wondered if she could possibly get Potter into Azkaban. The amplitude of magic he used was extremely strong, even though it was a simple unlocking charm, but amplitude was what mattered. And even if he didn't land in Azkaban, there were several other… _charming_ places she had in mind…

She turned at the sound of running footsteps.

"Weasley!" she exclaimed before recovering herself to arrange a sickly smile on her face and moving in front of the doorway. "Why, Arthur Weasley, I did not expect to see you." She examined him with disdain. Thin, balding, Muggle-loving old fool. One day, she'd get rid of him too.

"Ah—hello Umbridge," he babbled, "I was—I mean, the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts needed someone to check, to see if—er—" He turned very red. Interesting.

"Mr. Weasley, I fail to see how the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts could _possibly_ require one of their members to come here…?" She smiled at him, waiting, _knowing_ that she had her prey.

A sudden scream issued from the house, following by a yell, and then a woman's shrill voice stuttering.

"I think Mr. Weasley had better go in."

Umbridge whirled around. Shackbolt. Her eyes narrowed. She had wanted three Aurors—three of _her_ Aurors—to come along, to make sure that Potter boy couldn't escape, but Shackbolt had somehow wormed his way in. Suspicious.

"Yes," Mr. Weasley said shortly. "I concur." And darted in before the woman could stop him.

_The nerve!_ Umbridge fumed. _Upstart, poor, pretentious Muggle-loving fool_! She glared at Shackbolt, who seemed completely unperturbed, before huffing and made for the door.

"Madam, I wouldn't advise you…" Shaklebolt began, but stopped when a yell issued from the house. Umbridge stopped, too, before narrowing her eyes maliciously. It sounded like Weasley. Probably, the Potter boy had bitten him, the little lunatic…

One of the windows facing the street popped open, and Moulton, one of her Aurors, peered out. "The Potter boy! He's gone!"

Umbridge swelled and stepped forward furiously. "_Gone_? What do you mean, _gone_?"

Moulton waved his hands around in confusion. "He's not there! Just—gone!"

Umbridge fumed. Trust these incompetent fools not to be able to nab a nasty little boy! She was a step from the doorway when Shackbolt somehow got in before her, a worried look on his face.

She spared a moment to mentally note to get rid of Shacklebolt before she stomped forward another step. Just then, though, a flicker of movement at the side of the house caught her eye. She glanced at Shacklebolt's disappearing form and crept stealthily towards the movement.

"Well, Potter," she whispered under her breath, dimly hearing muffled thuds from inside the house. "It seems your time is up…"

She peered around the corner. It was rather dark, being on the eastern side of the house and thus cloaked in shadow. A large magnolia tree grew there, and its leaves moved gently in the wind.

_Strange_, she thought, taking a few steps forward…

A fierce hissing reached her ears—

She nearly screamed when she noticed the snake, green and laced with silver, coiled near the base of the tree. It was poised, ready to strike, ready to kill—

She did scream as she took a hurried step back, fumbling for her wand, but the snake was following her from the tree, lashing out his head—

"_Stupefy_!" she shrieked shrilly.

The jet of purple hit the snake squarely in the head, and it fell to the ground, utterly still.

Dolores Umbridge took a moment to regain her breath. She glared at the snake, and then smiled. She lifted her foot and smashed her heal on the snake's head, hearing a satisfying crack as bones broke and were crushed under he heel.

She banished the snake disdainfully, but as it whisked past the tree, a part of its tail caught against… something. And for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of—

She hurried forward, kneeling down and feeling—

A low moan reached her ears.

_Aha! An invisibility cloak_! She clenched her hands into fists, grabbing onto the liquid cloth, and ripped it off.

A boy lay curled up in a fetal position on the ground. Blood covered his body, and bloody welts criss-crossed his back. Bruises covered the rest of the once-pale skin, and she noticed that his left leg was bent in a decidedly unhealthy manner. Hair, streaked with blood, covered his face.

_Not Potter_, she thought, critically examining his features. She wrinkled her nose, disgusted and repulsed. The boy groaned again, and she was about to get up and leave when his eyes, half-veiled behind his hair, flickered to bare slits for the smallest of moments.

_Green_.

She leaned forward excited and pushed the disgusting hair out of the boy's face. No, it wasn't Potter—this face was too sharp, too angular, the lips, though swollen, too thin, the eyebrows too expressively fine—there was some resemblance, perhaps, with the Potter boy's face, but this was not the boyish brat—

And then she saw the scar.

A full smile swept over her face as she gazed at that scar. At last… at long last… The boy's eyelids flickered open again, and Umbridge tightened her grip on his face—_no escape for you, brat_, she thought—but they closed again, like the limp wings of a dead moth.

She smiled. Couldn't stop smiling.

She heard footsteps and Shacklebolt's voice. She'd have to act quickly. Taking the invisibility cloak, she cast it over the boy before standing up, the simpering smile on her face coming quite naturally.

"Oh, nothing, Shacklebolt," she purred at the Auror's query. He still looked quite suspicious, but then a shout from that redheaded idiot inside the house got rid of him fast enough.

There were more people coming, apparating from the other end of the street. She'd have to act fast. She had a plan in her head, a plan that would outfox that doddering fool Dumbledore. She slipped a hand into her robes, took out a portkey, and vanished.

qpqpqp

Remus Lupin and Albus Dumbledore looked at the images that floated up from the basin of coppery gold. They had agreed to try out Severus Snape's newest potion—one that connected sight from one of the Order to Fawkes, who would then relay it to the Seeing Pool, which was what Dumbledore had taken to calling the basin of coppery gold. (Severus was still grumpy, after the name he had proposed—ridiculously long and Latin—had been turned down.)

"That Umbridge woman!" Remus started, staring at what Arthur was staring at as well.

They watched tensely at the conversation, only relaxing when the man whose eyes they were looking through managed to get through the door.

"Good for Kingsley…" the werewolf muttered.

_The interior of a home, nicely furnished and with pictures hanging on the walls. A glance given to the pictures before moving quickly to the other room. Two things were in it, a trembling whale that resembled a boy, and a stick that resembled a woman. A bit closer, and yes, it was a woman, with wild eyes, and a boy so fat it seemed incredible_…

"I presume those are Harry's relatives?" Remus asked, a bit disbelievingly.

Dumbledore nodded absent-mindedly.

"Good lord," Remus muttered. "Fancy Lily having a nephew like that…"

_Up the stairs, several steps at a time_. _The top of the stairs now, and the carpet seemed slightly disarranged. The gaze was directed immediately to a door at the end of the hall. Quickened footsteps, turning_—

Dumbledore started and paled.

"Wha—" Remus began.

_The gaze swept over the barren room. An open window and a bed, a pan of bloodied water on the bed, and that was all, besides a sheet on the floor— _

_Eyes turned to the strangely colored sheet_—

Remus made a choking sound.

_Blood. Blood it was, brown and red, on the sheet, stared at fixedly. Blood, red, fresh— Up, to the cot. Blood. Handcuffs, opened, lying nearby; another sweep of the floor, and the gaze stopped at a belt, covered with crusted blood_—

"Albus, what is this?" Remus demanded in a strangled voice.

_The gaze lingered on the belt, the bed, the sheet, the bloody floor, one to another then back again_. _Then to the auror who had cast a cursory glance out the open window, and then to the wall on the other side, perhaps to hear someone shout_…

"Albus!" Remus sputtered, feeling his blood run cold. "Is that—that _can't_ be—Harry's—"

_The gaze shifted, and the vision receded as though the seer was moving backwards, out of the room until arrested by a noise, a movement to the side. An Auror, crouched on the ground, a piece of floorboard lying aside. Closer now, and the contents, a few cakes, biscuits, stale, crumbling, and a book_… _Hands lifting the book, the auror's hands, then opened—_

"It's Harry's," Remus breathed hoarsely. "Those are photos of James and Lily." He paled, shaking. "Then that is—it's Harry's room, it's his…"

_Blood. Blood on the ground near the loose floorboard. The vision zooming up to see a figure in the doorway_—

"Kingsley," Remus said with a hint of smile on his face.

_The gaze shifted, moving out of the room. A thorough scan of the hall, then the room nearby. A wand out, a spell cast. Nothing. The next room, a bathroom, a quick glance through, in the bathtub and under the sink, nothing. Next room—nothing. Nothing. The upstairs scoured, now downstairs, a kitchen, the mantel, the fireplace, the dining room, under the counter, under the table, under the sink, another room_—

"He's not there," Albus Dumbledore said suddenly. His eyes were fixed on a small silver object on his table. There was jewel on top of it, tinted red, but now it was dull as a pebble. "Harry's not there anymore."

He took out his wand and wearily tapped the coppery gold basin.

Remus Lupin, eyes wide and face still pale, turned to face the headmaster, but the old man was looking the other way. "Albus—that was Harry's blood… How could—"

"I cannot answer all the questions, Remus," Dumbledore interrupted. The man looked old, Remus thought. "The question now is: where is Harry?"

qpqpqp

A soft bell in Matilda Malone's owlery rang gently. A light, on one of the neat mailboxes lining the walls, lit up, glowing gold.

"Sixteen years," Matilda murmured thoughtfully as she took a tiny key out of her pocket. She turned the lock and took out two things: a small envelope, the color of milky dawn, and a receipt:

_Lily Evans Potter _

_Date received: March 24, 1981 _

_Date due: August 2, 1996_

"Iris," Matilda called gently. An owl with white wings streaked with black fluttered down. "Take these. Make sure the recipient gets them."

The owl hooted in acknowledgement.

"Good girl," Matilda murmured as she watched the owl fly away into the evening sky.

qpqpqp

"Good afternoon, Dolores," Halley Shaw growled as he swung his baton-wand. It was his standard greeting—'good afternoon.' After all, nobody could tell the time of day from the sun here in the depths of the Jaeggar Prison, where the sunlight never ventured. "And what brings you here?"

Dolores Umbridge simpered a smile before flicking her wand. The invisibility cloak slithered off, and a boy, battered and bloody, was revealed.

"Bloody hell," Shaw swore under his breath. "He needs to get to a hospital, Dolores!" He pointed his baton-wand at the still body, but the woman stilled his hand.

"Surely, you know what kind of treatment is afforded for enemies of the Ministry," she crooned.

Shaw gazed uncertainly at the body, so thin it looked like a skeleton with skin, more broken than whole, hastily wrapped over the shivering frame. "But he's a boy, Dolores…"

"Yes, and I'm the Senior Secretary of the Minister of Magic himself," Umbridge snapped, about to run out of patience. She hitched the sickly sweet smile back onto her face before adding, "The Minister, you know, has been quite anxious to deal with his particular delinquent… He deserved what he got, you know…"

Shaw spared one more hesitant glance at the boy before he crossed his arms over his chest. "All right," he said carefully, "but this one's going to be _quite_ expensive…"

"Of course," Umbridge replied.

"Ah, yes," Shaw said airily. "Where do you want to put him? We can decide the living expenses later…"

Umbridge smiled again, looking down at Harry the way a toad would look at a juicy fly. "I know just the right cell."

She flicked her wand, muttering, "_Mobilicorpus_," and marched down the corridor with the invisibility cloak under her arm. She noticed with a dark gleam of satisfaction that Shaw was nudging the boy's dangling body roughly with his baton-wand.

She paused in front of a cell at the end of the corridor. The only light in the corridors came from the torches guttered and coughed along the dirty stone walls. Coughs and the clanking of heavy chains echoed in the silence.

"Horace!" Shaw shouted. "Horace! You've got a visitor!"

Umbridge had to strain her eyes to make out the hulking shadow in the deepest corner of the cell. She thought, maybe, that it had stirred, but there was no clanking of chains. A very brief glimmer of blank, crazed eyes glowed and died in the cell.

"He'll wake up in time," Shaw explained, grinning wolfishly. He tapped the bars with his baton and a purple barrier appeared behind it. The bars bent open. "Kick 'im in, Dolores!"

Umbridge smiled, flicking her wand and sending the body into the dank cell. It fell into a crumpled heap, motionless except for the barest of quivers.

"There you go, Horace," Shaw grinned. "A nice _boy_ for you, Horace."

_At last_, Umbridge thought, a dark flame burning merrily in her heart. The giant shadow had stirred, and she heard a distinctive sniffing noise… _Enjoy, Horace_.

This was what she loved about Jaeggar Prison. It was much lesser known than the other wizarding prison, Azkaban; in fact, very few people knew about that Jaeggar Prison even existed. Furthermore, the wards over the prison blocked out all but the most potent tracking spells. Azkaban had its dementors, but Jaegger Prison had the wards constructed four hundred years ago by a mad wizard of exceptional power…

Most importantly, Jaeggar Prison was completely under the thumb of the Minister and several higher-up officials (herself included). Its low profile was perfect for hiding… distasteful cases. Such as with Horace Fish, who had been arrested years ago for the alleged rape of twelve Muggle boys. Of course, his case wasn't too difficult to deal with, but years before his final arrest, he had already been arrested by Aurors, and the Minister had made the slight mistake of letting him go free and letting his decision get widely publicized… It certainly wouldn't look good to have such a mistake emerging; no, it wouldn't. And so here was the perfect solution: letting him rot here before he somehow… disappeared.

Harry Potter, too. He was _clearly_ a criminal and a great threat to the peace of mind of dear Cornelius. If the Potter boy somehow died during his stay in prison… well, she couldn't be held responsible, could she? And if the public was too concerned, well, she had her contacts in the _Daily Prophet_. Nothing quite like another scandal to forget a figurehead, or unearthing (or creating) skeletons in the closet to push a famous name out of existence.

Of course, it was very likely that nobody would find out that the Potter boy was here. She was quite sure not even the old fool Dumbledore knew the secrets of Jaegger Prison.

Yes, it was working out beautifully. Dolores Umbridge, a smile playing over her toad-like face, was pleased.

qpqpqp

Number 4, Privet Drive, was empty.

In a large park a few miles away, a woman and her fat son were dragging a body through the undergrowth. The body's face, though already bloated with fat and multiple chins, was stiff in death, with purple lips and milky eyes. The poison he had died of was truly quite potent. His limbs were curled over in a most awkward manner because minutes after his death and seconds before wizards burst into the house, he had been stuffed into the trunk of a car.

The mother had taken a chainsaw with her. Mother and son rolled the body to the edge of a large stream, and then the mother began her work. Her son, shivering and sneezing next to her, threw up several times as she poured out a continuous stream of shrill words, justifications.

Finally, the uneven and mismatched pieces of Vernon Dursley floated peacefully out to sea.

qpqpqp

Hidden under the bushes next to Number 4, Privet Drive, ants were crawling over the crushed body of a snake. The head, once sleekly green and silver, was mangled beyond recognition, and the body coiled limply next to it.

As the full moon glided lazily over the sky, a pale form lifted itself from the snake's body. It was shaped just like the dead snake, but it was the pale silver of the sky before dawn, and it was translucent.

Slithering to under the magnolia tree, it hissed at a few drops of blood, before it twisted around and darted with unwonted speed through the tree trunk, through the underbrush, skimming the grass as it whispered through leaf and stone…

But it paused near a running brook, poised and waiting. In another moment, a shadow swept through the snake, and an owl alighted next to it. The snake reared, wary, until the owl hooted softly. Gentle hissing followed, rising and lowering in volume, until the owl nodded, and took flight. The serpent watched for a moment before darting again through the undergrowth, north to Scotland, to its birthplace: Hogwarts…

The owl winged through the air. Its eyes glowed silver for a moment as it scanned the horizon. Not all owls were truly owls, and no animal was as stupid as it looked. Strange as it was that the recipient would be in Jaeggar Prison. Not many people knew about it, and it was quite shady… But the owl learned not to question it. After all, through its life, it had delivered many letters to many strange places…

qpqpqp

"I trust you, Severus."

Snape scowled at the headmaster. Damn the man, those words never failed to coerce him into doing whatever the old man wanted.

But he understood the severity of the situation. The Potter boy was missing. And if the Potter boy managed to kill himself at last, Voldemort would inevitably win. Stupid, spoiled brat, always getting himself in trouble…

He frowned slightly as he swept down the halls into his dungeons. Now, whenever he indulged in whole-heartedly hating Harry Potter, those images—nicked from Potter's mind during the Occlumeny lessons—would come up and shake his unshakable hatred.

He couldn't understand. Of course, the Potter boy was spoiled; neither Albus nor the wizarding world would allow anything less. There had to be an explanation. _Probably more Potter idiocy_, he thought.

He continued stalking down the corridors, with a single, short, jet-black hair in his fingers, thinking of what he would need to create a tracking potion…

qpqpqp

_The petals from the flowering tree drifted down like snow_. _Arms held him, soothing arms that rocked him as he half-slept, half-watched the falling petals_…

"_Come away, oh human child _

_To the waters and the wild_…"

_A voice was singing to him, a voice both soft and sweet_.

"_With a faery hand in hand _

_For the world's more full of weeping_…"

_He did not need to know whose voice it was. He knew already, just as he knew that this gentle snowfall of petals would be the last they would see together. _

_Was he a stolen child? Stolen from death, one of the petals, stolen by the wind and drifting through the dapples of green-gold sunlight_…

"…_Than he can understand_."

Something was touching him.

He opened his eyes but could see nothing but darkness.

Something was touching him, a hand that barely brushed his lacerated back, going over slowly, like a hovering ghost…

The last of the petals swirled away, and he tried to move himself. The ground beneath was hard and cold. Where was he? It was dark, everything was dark…

"Don't trouble yourself," a deep, raspy voice purred. "Don't trouble yourself at all, my little son…"

Harry swallowed, his throat still scratchy and painful. He was getting scared. He couldn't see a single thing, and he didn't know where he was…

He opened his mouth to say something but a rough, grimy hand went over his lips.

"Quiet now, my little son," the voice continued.

_I wouldn't have been able to scream anyhow_, Harry thought, panicked. His hand reached out, searching for anything that might help—a stick, a rock, something—but his fingers just touched a slimy puddle, and more cold, hard stone—

A large, rough hand had grabbed the hem of his boxers—

Harry's eyes widened, frozen for a disbelieving moment. The hand that brushed the swollen wounds on his buttocks, now bared, was trembling, almost reverent…

He bucked. He lashed out his legs, and nearly fainted from the pain when he realized too late that his left leg was broken. A hoarse scream ripped itself from his throat but died behind the unyielding hand. The pain was all encompassing—he felt himself drifting away for a terrible moment, but when then he realized that he was being shifted—moved— The panic was real this time, unlike anything, _anything_ he had ever felt before, not even with Dursley… Here, in the dark, alone, lost, broken, a hand ripping off his bloodied garment…

He struggled again, but there was no use. He was weak, tired, broken, and his attacker was strong. The hand on his mouth clamped cruelly, but the voice, quivering, still crooned words…

A familiar burn tore his eyes. Tears, but no tears would come—he struggled still, choking and screaming inside from the pain and the fear… But it was no use, no use, as he felt the first vicious thrust…

He let himself drift away.


	3. Rescue

**Chapter 3: Rescue**

Something… something was nipping his ear, nipping gently…

…_pain_…

Too tired. Too weary… It hurt to breathe, why not just… stop…

More nipping.

…_it ached, ached so badly_…

He shuddered, jerking convulsively, uncontrollably. He remembered the mad thrusts, the hot panting breaths and the way he was crushed, and the burning, burning pain—

He opened his eyes and glanced around fearfully, but he could see nothing. Darkness.

It hurt. It hurt so badly, he wished it would stop. _Please_, he shouted, pleaded, screamed, whispered. _Please_, to nobody in particular. To nobody at all.

_Why not just let go_. _Why not_…

But he couldn't. Something stopped him, something inside, something that woke the pain and denied him sleep.

He held his breath, though his ribs hurt terribly… There was dripping somewhere far away, echoing like a clock… A chain clinking, far off as well… Grumbling, moans in the distance, almost inaudible… Nearby, the sound of even, even breathing…

He spread his legs painfully, biting back a scream at the pain in his left leg. God, it felt—it was disgusting. He wanted a bath. He needed a bath, he needed to wash himself, to wash it out—oh God—water, please, he needed to drink anything besides his own blood—

Something brushed his face and his hands flew to his face, brushing away the horrible thing—

He hit feathers, soft feathers, and heard a slightly indignant hoot…

_An_… _owl_?

He paused, calming his breathing. Feathers brushed near his mouth, and he flinched, remembering what had happened… an hour ago? Two hours ago? Last night? Or yesterday? Anyway, it hardly mattered…

He let his fingers wander over the feathers, down to the talons and the proffered letter. Hesitantly, he took it. _I wonder how the owl got down here_, he thought as he heard a faint hoot and felt the beat of wings near his face. He waited, listening, and heard the almost imperceptible sound of the owl flying away…

A snort from somewhere close, and Harry jerked, scurried away until he crawled head-first into the wall. He crumpled against it, gasping as his bruises collided against the wall.

He lay, too hurt to move, the envelope still in his hand. The pain passed. Curious, he brought the envelope to his face. He could not see, but at least he could smell it…

The enveloped was strangely heavy, he realized. There seemed to be something inside it. He held it close to his nose and, over the heavy odor of semen and blood and refuse, he sniffed. Strange that he could discern it… The scent was vaguely, strangely familiar. He could not place it, exactly, but an image came unbidden, that of a swirl of petals and a voice tenderly singing…

A snorting noise sounded for the other end of the cell.

_He's waking up_, Harry thought, groping frantically. There was nowhere he could hide the letter. Nowhere. But he wasn't going to let it taken from him, by God, he would keep it safe—it was his, and nobody was going to take it from him! It was his. But where to hide it? Not in his clothes; he realized that he was naked (not that it made that much of a difference with his treatment at the Dursleys). And he doubted he would be able to find a hiding place in the cell…

Scraping sounds from the other end…

Desperate, Harry turned his back to the sounds and quickly folding the letter, put it in his parched mouth just as a hand gripped him cruelly on his shoulder and another crept down his chest and stomach…

Harry shivered as he fell limply against the wall. _I have it safe in my mouth_, he thought. _I'll hide it under my tongue if—if_…

Oh God, let it end, please let it end oh God let it end please please please…

And then his mind gave up and slipped from his body.

qpqpqp

Snape paused at the headmaster's door, listening. He had finished the tracking potion a few minutes ago, pleased that it looked successful, and had gone up to Dumbledore's office, but had heard fierce voices. Being a spy with an insatiable curiosity, of course he paused and eavesdropped. It wasn't as if Dumbledore didn't know he was there, though; Dumbledore always knew.

"…how could you let them, Albus? Why didn't you check?"

Snape frowned. He'd never heard the werewolf sound so quietly, deadly accusing, and _nobody_ ever sounded that way to Albus Dumbledore.

"Calm down, Remus! Albus couldn't have known."

Snape frowned again. It was Arthur Weasley, and the potions master had never heard the man sound so upset and shaken.

Angry pacing.

"I'll need a few more words with Arabella…" Lupin growled, and Snape shivered, remembering the night, many long years ago, when the same person who was prowling on the other side of the door had nearly killed him…

"What matters now," the headmaster replied, "is for us to find Harry." Snape frowned. The old man's voice was even and calm, but he, having heard that voice so many times, could detect a thread of bone-deep weariness. "I believe Severus has a potion for us…?"

Snape stood up straight, straightening his robes, and pushed the door open before sweeping into the room.

He noticed, with some satisfaction, Remus Lupin and Arthur Weasley gaze at him in shock. He smirked, then presented the potion to the headmaster.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, eyes glinting. "A tracking potion for Mr. Potter." The potion glittered green in its vial. The fact had surprised Snape for a moment: he'd expected it to be red after he'd put in that single strand of the brat's hair, but there was no proven correlation between potion color and tracker subject, so he'd dismissed it. Typical Potter idiocy. "Would you mind explaining it, Severus?"

Snape cocked a questioning eyebrow. "Certainly," he sneered, going into lecture mode. "The tracking potion for Potter shows, over a period of an hour, visions of where the subject is and the state he is in. It works well only with those who have connections with the person being tracked—a parent, for example, or a close friend…"

"What are we waiting for?" Lupin demanded, looking up coolly, eyes red from… crying? Snape kept his face expressionless but felt very puzzled indeed. Surely Lupin, who always kept himself calm and collected, couldn't have been _crying_…?

"Remus, Arthur, Severus," Dumbledore said, and Snape noticed, with faint dread, that a twinkle had started in them once more, "all three of you are qualified wizards, and all three of you have interacted strongly with Mr. Potter at one time or another—"

"Albus! You surely cannot expect the potion to work with _me_," Snape sputtered, guessing the headmaster's intentions. "I hate Potter. Potter hates me. Period."

"There may be a link of mutual dislike," Dumbledore replied, smiling optimistically. Snape scowled. "So, I would like each of you to drink the potion. Severus?"

Snape scowled again, reluctantly conjuring three porcelain cups (the potion reacted badly with metals; he'd found out one cauldron too late the first time he'd made it). Dumbledore beamed as he poured the green concoction into each of the cups as though he were serving tea.

Snape swooped down and took his, holding it while eying the other two mockingly. Both seemed rather hesitant to drink anything _he_ had made… He smirked at them. Weasley reached forth first, followed by the werewolf.

"Drink up! Drink up!" Dumbledore encouraged happily. He turned serious and added: "It may be Harry's only hope, gentlemen."

_Saving Potter again, are we_, Snape thought bitterly as he downed the potion.

He felt the potion simmer down his esophagus then permeate through his body… He could feel the magic catalyzing now, any moment the surge would pass and he would be able to triumphantly tell Albus that he was right, he'd have no visions of Potter…

But even before he had completed the thought, he was hovering in the air, hurtling somewhere—_south_, he thought instinctively—over slums and cities, forest and wasteland… A dark building, made of concrete and cold iron, carelessly warded… Through the heavy doors emblazoned with rusty words—Jaeggar Prison—and inside, where a dozens of guttural whispers echoed in insanity… Down the corridor, to the very end, and Snape suddenly felt an insurmountable dread—

_A hulking shadow, its gasps ringing with sickening clarity, his throaty whispers_… _A bundle beneath it, crumpled like a fallen robe, silent and blank_… _Eyes, closed, slitting open and closing again_—

Snape choked and came to, barely aware of the porcelain cup shattering in the headmaster's office.

"…Severus?"

Vaguely, he heard the headmaster's concerned voice. He shook his head, and then snarled at Weasley and the werewolf (both of whom were staring blankly and with tinges of concern at the potions master)—

"Well?" he demanded. "What did _you_ see?"

The two others stared blankly at the potions professor. "Nothing," they replied at once.

Snape's face darkened. "This is hardly the time for lies," he snarled coldly. "I should think you would appreciate Potter's situation more—"

"Severus," the headmaster admonished sternly.

Snape whirled around, slamming a lid onto his temper. "But Headmaster, I clearly saw some—startling images. If _I_ saw anything," he snapped, "_they_ must've seen _more_."

Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "You saw, Severus?"

"Of course I saw," Snape replied sharply. He glared, frustrated, at the two others.

"Really?" Remus began hesitantly. "Because I saw almost nothing—"

"Do you think your lies are _funny_, Lupin—?" Snape roared and Dumbledore was saying something, but he didn't hear it because suddenly the world spun away in darkness and he felt a horrible pain all over his body, and a terrible thirst… A feeling of disgusting filth all over, as though ants and leeches were all over him—

"Severus!"

Snape blinked.

_What on earth happened to Potter_? He thought, not hearing what the headmaster was saying. He knew only that there was darkness and pain, so much pain—but it didn't seem to be the Cruciatus. It was—physical. Real.

"…will you go, Severus?"

Snape looked up, blinking. "I'm not quite sure what you mean, Albus…"

"Will you go find Harry, Severus? You may be our last hope, you know."

Snape worked his jaw open, and then shut it. He planned to protest vehemently, even though he knew that Albus always won in the end—but the words died in his throat much earlier than usual.

"Very well," he snapped. "I shall go—_alone_, I might add." He sneered at Lupin, who was looking concerned.

"Severus," the headmaster said firmly, "do take Remus along. We have no idea where you may end up, and two heads are always better than one." Snape glared at Dumbledore, but the old man just smiled placidly, looking quite smug at getting Snape to cave in.

Snape scowled and turned to leave, suspicions plaguing his mind. The werewolf followed, sputtering something to the headmaster—

"Remember to report back at any dangerous circumstance," Dumbledore warned as Snape nearly slammed the door in the werewolf's face. "Goodness knows we wouldn't want the rescuers to require rescue…"

qpqpqp

Severus Snape didn't understand what he had seen or felt—there was so much darkness, and a persistent pain coupled with a strange sense of detachment. Neither did he understand this strange compulsion to barge in like an idiotic Gryffindor.

Something was not right.

Snape could not believe how he had gotten himself in such a mess. And over a stupid Gryffindor, too!

When he apparated himself as close as he could to the place he had in his visions, he'd nearly _gaped_ at the entrance to Jaeggar Prison. Harry Potter? Stuck in some almost unheard of wizarding prison?

He _should_ have doubled back immediately and consulted with Albus Dumbledore on the next step. One did not barge into a strange, suspicious wizarding prison. But the moment he made up his mind, the damned potion surged up again, and he felt, achingly, the darkness and the pain.

So he had snarled at Remus Lupin to _wait there or die_, stepped into the Prison, found a dark corner, cast a few masking charms on himself, and went to search for Harry Potter, the bloody Boy-Who-Lived.

_Merlin_, he muttered as he took the corridor down to the deepest cells. Strangely, there was almost nobody there. _Why am I saving the Potter brat again? If it weren't for Dumbledore, I'd_…

The two guards in charge straightened when he was nearly upon them. _Fools_, he thought, sneering.

"G-Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy," one of the guards stuttered.

Snape sneered, running one hand through the blond hair he now wore. The illusion spell felt like grease, and he did not need his hair to be oilier than it already was. "Well?" he barked. He was glad Malfoy was so notorious. He'd totally guessed as to what disguise to use, and apparently, he'd guessed correctly.

The two guards jumped. The one who hadn't spoken up nervously took out a wand. "I—you understand, s-sir, that under the prison's r-regulations, I—I must—"

Snape sent him a look akin to dissection. The guard swallowed.

"Right, Mr. Malfoy," he bumbled and waved his wand over Snape. "_R-Reveloso_!"

_Pathetic_, Snape thought. Even if Flitwick hadn't drawn up this new charm that was immune to most all commonly used revealing spells, this spell lacked any potency whatsoever.

"I'm sure… I'm sure we can skip the Prison's own revealing spells," the guard suggested weakly, and scurried to open the door when faced with Snape's death glare. Even in Malfoy's face it was effective.

The doors swung open and Snape strode in—and nearly froze as he felt the tingling of hostile magic as he passed through the doorway. For an instant, time stopped, and he felt the cold, ruthless magic probing him, and Snape stood very still, unconsciously holding his breath…

"Which level, Mr. M-Malfoy?" one of them asked.

Snape sneered as he felt the probing magic leave him. He shivered and took a step forward, raking his mind for clues. Only hesitating for a moment, he drawled, "The lowest floor, idiot."

A minute later, on a very rusty magical elevator, Snape was descending at an agonizingly slow pace down into the bowels of Jaeggar Prison. The Prison, he learned, actually had thirteen levels, but all the criminals were held in the bottom two. The other eleven were unused.

Snape had to fight very hard not to scowl or snap at the two nervous guards flanking him: though Malfoy sneered and drawled like he did, Malfoy did _not_ scowl.

He was annoyed. He was impatient. He was bordered on worried. _Worried about Potter_. The thought only made him want to scowl and snarl even more.

"This w-way," one of the guards whispered.

_Darkness_.

Pain swept over him like a furious tide—heat, cold, dirty, dirty disgusting—pain—

It passed. Severus Snape faced the long corridor.

He turned around a sneered. In the dark, he fancied he looked like a nightmarish vampire, even with his Malfoy-blonde hair.

"You two will _stay here_ until I return. Understand?"

The two guards nodded meekly.

Snape stalked down the long, dark corridor, unaware of the hisses and faint clinks from the cells. One or two of them yelled out at him, but he did not hear them. His concentration was trained on that presence—closer and closer. A persistent pain, a gnawing darkness…

He hurried. He was approaching the cell at the end of the corridor— Strange sounds, like an animal panting, issued from it—

"_Lumos_," he whispered, and the strange, animalistic panting stopped, giving way to heavy, human breathing.

Snape stared.

A human—or what resembled a human—was crouched in the light, a black beard covering most of its twisted face. It flinched in the light and scampered away, muttering oaths under its breath, leaving a pile underneath…

It was a body. For a moment, Snape was sure it was a dead body: cuts and bruises criss-crossed the otherwise white skin. Splatters of blood formed puddles around the body… the body of a boy. Then, the boy moved slightly, and Snape realized with all the implications that the boy was naked, and the area between his spread legs was particularly bloody—

The visions and aches from the potion juxtaposed themselves onto what he was seeing, and he hissed, "_Potter_?"

The boy didn't respond.

Cursing, Snape jabbed his wand at the prison bars, feeling the wards, undoing them shakily one by one. Once, long ago, he had learned the art of undoing prison wards. The wards he were currently undoing were old, about four hundred years old, and though they were once strong, after all these years, they had decayed. He concentrated: the wards were tuned to spontaneous bursts of power, the reason being that wand-less prisoners would only be able to produce random spurts of uncontrolled magic. Yes… Slowly, he inserted his own magic, feeling the wards crumble…

The iron bars arched open.

Snape swooped down, waving his wand over the boy's body.

He reached a hand down to take the boy's pulse—and the boy shuddered, jerked like a dying spider, pulling away.

"Potter?" he demanded, as loudly as he dared. He glanced at the boy's face and started: this was not Potter! It was too angular, too sharp, cheekbones too high, hair too long… But then he caught sight of the lightning-bolt scar, and gritted his teeth. This _was_ Potter. This broken, beaten, bloody heap of skin and bones.

"Oh what've you done now, Potter?" Snape muttered. The boy required medical attention he did not know how to give. Casting a basic healing-bubble charm, the potion master bent down and as gently as he could, picked up the trembling body…

The boy whimpered and crossed his arms (the wrists, Snape noted, were bloodied and raw) over his thin chest, and squeezed his legs together as tightly as possible.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Potter," Snape snarled under his breath, but it lacked any venom. If anything, he felt the ridiculous urge to tighten his hold on the limp, nearly weightless body. He straightened and took a step out—

"_Hey_! What do you think you're doing—"

Snape whirled around to see a man dragging a baton-wand pointing at accusing finger at Snape. The potion master squinted in the darkness: the man's ID tag read something 'Shaw.'

"Yes?" Snape demanded imperiously, stepping out of the cell as smoothly as a gliding bat.

"Don't move!" Shaw shouted as the bars clanged shut. Snape froze, all the while eying the guard disdainfully. His wand was still in his pocket, and with the boy in his arms, reaching his wand would draw too much attention…

"You're under arrest," Shaw barked, his baton wand directed at Snape, "for attempting to break a deadly prisoner out and—"

"_Dare_ you arrest me, Shaw?" Snape hissed, taking a step forward as the guard took an involuntary one backwards. "I am a _Malfoy_." The sudden shock and hesitation in the guard's eyes were quite satisfying, even if it was because of looking like Malfoy. "And this," Snape shifted the boy in his arm, ignoring the almost inaudible whimper and imperceptible shudder, "this is Harry Potter." He moved some of the sticky, bloodstained black hair to reveal the scar…

"Great _Merlin_!" Shaw breathed, but narrowed his eyes. "No wonder… Always getting himself into trouble, that one," the guard muttered, eyes fixed on the lightning-bolt scar, not noticing Snape's hand creeping to his pocket… "Deserves what he gets, this one…"

While he normally would have concurred whole-heartedly without blinking, he found himself having to lie. "While I agree with you," Snape remarked amiably, his hand closing on his wand, "I must be going now…"

"You can't do that! You can't just take prisoners out and leave—"

"_Stupefy!_"

Shaw's eyes rolled back suddenly before he fell on one knee, then the other, and then keeled over altogether.

"Not bad," Snape muttered, pulling through his hair. "You and I are going," Snape whispered to Potter's whimpering, shivering form, "to Hogwarts." He grasped the tiny black jewel that was attached to a strand of his oily hair, and the two vanished. 


	4. Healing

_A/N: The poem in the previous chapter, "The Stolen Child," is by the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 4: Healing**

When Snape appeared in the hospital wing, he had to wait only two seconds before Madam Pomfrey burst out from her office. Her gaze went to the potion master's burden, and her face blanched in surprise.

"Severus!" she cried. "What—"

"He needs immediate attention," Snape snapped as Pomfrey levitated the boy onto a bed.

"What _happened_ to him?" Pomfrey whispered.

"I found him in a prison of sorts."

"Is he…" her voice lowered slightly as she waved her wand over the boy's still body, "is he one of our students?"

Snape frowned. "After the amount of time he spends in the hospital wing, I should think you'd recognize him… after all, that scar is _quite_ unmistakable."

"Scar?—P-_Potter_? Harry Potter?"

Snape just sneered and left to report to the headmaster, leaving a rather flustered nurse behind. Potter was safe, and the thought gave him an uncharacteristically satisfied feeling…

Strange, though, how much Potter had changed. It didn't seem solely due to starvation, though that was definitely part of it. The higher cheekbones, narrower face, and limp hair reminded him very strongly of somebody—not the elder Potter—but someone else… It was very hard to tell, for the face was bruised and swollen and bloodied all over, but he knew that the face was definitely different from the one he'd glared at the end of last term.

Thinking such thoughts, he swept up the stairs and halls, head bowed in brooding, to the headmaster's office.

Madam Pomfrey had already completed a preliminary scan of the boy's body. Poor thing—starved, more bruises and cuts than she could count, wrists rubbed so raw it was nearly to the bone, a leg broken in two places, twisted ankle, three broken ribs, one which was poking into his left lung, a cracked clavicle, the bone in his cheek chipped, jaw quite cracked, too many internal injuries to count… It was hard to believe that this limp, bloody, nearly-dead boy was, only a few months ago, the fierce, green-eyed teenager she so remembered…

What disturbed her more was the way the boy flinched at every touch, the way his legs clamped together, the way blood seeped out and stained the white sheets. There was only one explanation, and she shuddered as she thought of it. What kind of monster could have done such a thing?

Pomfrey summoned her cache of potions, taking the strongest internal healing one and forcing open the poor boy's mouth. She was about to pour it down his throat when she saw—a piece of paper in his mouth?

Gingerly, she took it out: it appeared to be a mauve-colored envelope, damp from saliva and blood…

"…should have _left_ you there gaping at the doors! I don't see why I had to apparate back to collect you when I _told_ Albus that I should have gone _alone_."

"He's my best friend's godson, for heaven's sake! I do have—"

Madam Pomfrey drew herself up, glaring at the headmaster, potions master, and werewolf. "_Silence_!" she commanded. Silence ensued. "You're disturbing the patient!"

"How is he, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked gravely, radiating urgent power.

"Bad," the nurse replied, shaking her head. "He's been starved, dehydrated. There're more bruises and lacerations than I can count, plus quite a few broken bones, and many of the injuries are up to a month old… But—" Her voice lowered. "I think he was raped, Albus…"

A choked sound from the werewolf.

"He was," Snape interrupted in a flat voice. "I saw it."

"You saw it?" the headmaster asked in a sharp voice.

The potion master nodded curtly. "He was in one of the cells, and the other—thing in it with him was…"

An interruption in the form of another strangled sound from the werewolf. Snape shot Lupin an irritated glance, though it was half-hearted a best.

"I've put him in a healing stasis," Pomfrey continued. "There _is_ a chance he might not make it… but knowing him, he probably will."

Remus Lupin, who had been staring at Harry the entire time with a deathly pale face, began shaking.

"Who did this?" he asked hoarsely but slowly. "He can't have been in the prison the whole time—the wards would have been alerted. Who put him there?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You might want to ask the one in charge of Jaegger Prison. A most unpleasant man named Shaw, he is definitely a strong lead… Claims not to know it was Potter he had tossed into the cell, but he may know who brought him the boy…"

"What's the meaning of this, Albus?" Alastor Moody growled.

Albus Dumbledore stood in a middle of a circle of Order members. Everybody's face was fraught with worry and anxiousness, besides Snape, who wore a grim smirk, and Remus, who still looked very pale.

"Why are we in the hospital wing?" Molly Weasley wondered quietly.

Remus Lupin shifted uneasily and shot a concerned glance at a curtained bed at the far end of the wing. The glance was noticed only by Snape (who snorted).

"Is it Harry?" Tonks demanded, her eyes turning green for a moment and a scar popping onto her forehead.

"Yes," the headmaster replied wearily.

"Was he found?" Mundungus Fletcher asked hurriedly.

"Concerned, are you?" Arabella Figg snarled. "After the poor boy stumbled into a prickly situation while it was your shift, and for the _second_ time?"

"Arabella, _I_ have a few unresolved issues to ask _you_ about," Remus Lupin said in a deathly voice.

"Remus!" Molly Weasley admonished, surprised, as Arabella Figg stared like a codfish.

"I believe we should start at the beginning," the headmaster said sternly, and everybody hushed. "Arthur? Kingsley?"

"Er—" Arthur Weasley gave Kingsley a brief glance before continuing. "Well, I was at the Ministry when Albus flooed me, saying that he detected magic being done at Number 4, Privet Drive, where Harry was staying. Knowing that, even now, certain people couldn't wait to get Harry expelled, Albus asked me to go and perhaps minimize the damage."

"Albus was right," said Kingsley Shackbolt when the other man paused. "Dolores Umbridge herself went with three of _her_ aurors."

"What! That old cow?" Tonks demanded, her face morphing into that of a disgusting toad.

"Yes, her," Arthur Weasley confirmed. "I got past her into the house. We found two Muggles—Harry's aunt and his cousin, presumably. They were blubbering about nothing being wrong at all. Then I got upstairs, and went into Harry's room." He broke off. "Albus, I think it would be best if you showed us all using the Seeing Pool."

"Certainly," the headmaster agreed, summoning the coppery basin. He closed his eyes and stirred the gold-colored contents before lifting out a strand with his wand.

"_Reveloso_," the headmaster muttered, and the strand expanded until it became a hologram. The colors bled in, and in the stunned silence that followed, someone choked—

"Is that—blood?"

"Yes, it is," Arthur Weasley answered darkly. "It's blood. His entire room smelled of old blood and—filth. And there were locks on the door, locks! See that? Those are Muggle handcuffs! And that's a belt—with dried blood on it."

Stunned silence.

"Are you implying, Arthur," Alastor Moody growled, "that Potter was strapped to that bed and possibly whipped and beaten—under our very noses?"

A barrage of babble exploded.

"That's impossible!" Arabella Figg wailed. "The notes he sent, the notes! And I didn't notice _anything_! He never came out, but I thought it was because he knew he had to stay safe!"

"Didn't the notes strike you as a big—fake?" Lupin shot back.

"But how?" Tonks demanded in a bewildered tone. "How could Death Eaters have snuck in there without the wards going off?"

"Perhaps it wasn't Death Eaters," Alastor Moody growled. "Whatever it was, the boy's kin let it happen. I'd like nothing more than to hear them give an explanation for this. I won't be surprised if they confess to having done it themselves."

"Alastor!" Molly Weasley cried. "You can't _possibly_ suggest that his _family_ would do that to him? Granted, his family isn't exactly loving, but—to do _that_—"

"Mrs. Weasley is correct," Snape said smoothly. "I find it hard to believe that the Potter boy would let himself suffer at the hands of his _Muggle_ relatives. Most likely"—he sneered—"they spoiled and pampered him to unbearable extremes."

"Snape, you know _nothing_ about Harry's 'relatives,'" Remus Lupin shouted, but at that moment, a sharp _ding!_ went off from the curtained bed at the far end of the wing.

"STAND BACK!" Madam Pomfrey commanded as the Order members began stampeding down the hospital wing. The nurse carved through the crowd and flung back the curtains.

Molly Weasley gave a strangled cry before bursting into tears. Tonks looked green. Alastor Moody, however, glanced sharply from the face of the semi-conscious boy to that of the sour potions master.

"Harry!" Molly Weasley sobbed and she took one of Harry's hands into her own. Immediately, the thin boy weakly jerked his hand away, uttering a hoarse cry as he shivered, legs clamped tightly together, eyes flying wide open.

"_STAND BACK!"_ the nurse roared, and this time, the Order members obeyed. She furiously summoned a tray of potions. Arthur Weasley ducked before the flying tray could decapitate him.

The agitated hush stretched as each Order member tried spying on the Boy-Who-Lived (Moody's magical eye was fixed on the bed at the far end, and his face was grim). Silence was broken by Tonks muttering, "Where was Harry, then? You said… he wasn't there when Arthur arrived. Did someone rescue him?"

"We found him," Snape said silkily, "in a prison, one that was not exclusively magical. We suspect that is why it had such a low profile. Apparently, his _rescuer_ deemed it worthy not to take him to a hospital, but to Jaeggar Prison." He paused for a moment and glanced at Albus Dumbledore. Nobody besides those looking for it would have noticed the headmaster shake his head slightly.

Tonks blanched. "But that's—I mean, who'd do such a thing?"

"Dolores Umbridge," Remus Lupin said shortly.

Several incredulous cries rang out.

"Are you meaning to say, Lupin," Alastor Moody demanded, "that Dolores Umbridge marched into Number 4, Privet Drive, plucked him out and dropped him into this Jaeggar Prison, then waited around with several aurors on the pretense of investigating underage magic?"

qpqpqp

Harry awoke with his eyes closed. He felt too tired to open them. Something about where he was lying felt strange, but he couldn't really tell, and he was so tired, and his mind was numb… He knew that if he moved, his body would hurt terribly. His mouth felt very dry, and he was thirsty… He felt something sticking to the wounds on his back, something he didn't remember from before…

Wearily, he opened his eyes—to utter darkness. _Ding!_

He heard rustling sounds and quick footsteps, and his muscles tensed as he waited for Vernon's raspy voice and heavy blows, but strangely, none came. He let his leaden eyelids droop, and heard a sob-choked voice speak his name.

_Mrs. Weasley_? He vaguely told himself that he was dreaming when suddenly he felt hands touching him—vile, vile hands that took his hand and stroked it, hands that crept up his arm and smeared his blood over his face and gripped his hips in a bruising hold—oh God, it was starting again—hands, hands, oh God, he tried to bury his mind, willing it to float away…

Sounds. Yelling, and then an anxious hush.

"…Potter? Mr. Potter?"

_Madam Pomfrey_? Harry opened his eyes but he was greeted only by darkness. Unbidden, his heart began to beat madly in panic and hope, but he suppressed it as best he could, and willed his body to relax. It was too much to hope for, he was probably dreaming again, and he was so tired… There were noises in the background from familiar voices, but up close he could hear the rustling of stiff skirts.

"Mr. Potter, I need you to drink this potion. You've got quite some healing to do…" He was. Oh God. He was in the Hogwarts hospital wing. The realization washed through him like the gentle roar of the incoming tide. All the tenseness in his body rushed out and he let himself go limp. "I certainly didn't expect you to wake up this early…" But even through his relief, he shivered with fear. What if the hands came again? "Here," Madam Pomfrey murmured. Harry felt his pillows raise him into a semi-sitting position. It ached all over as he moved, and a faint gasp burst from his lips.

Concerned, clucking noises. "Now, if you'll just drink this potion… It'll help you with your thirst, too, Mr. Potter…"

He felt the cool liquid burn down his throat. His parched lips and tongue barely registered any taste. He felt something brush his cheek—and he jerked away, the potion spilling, he could feel the wet stain, and it felt like a clammy hand touching him, but he—

The letter.

His fingers went to his mouth. Where was his letter. Where was it. Where was it? Panic began to tumble through his weary mind—had he swallowed it? He stretched his fingers down to the back of his mouth. Was it still—there? Where was it? _Relax, Harry_, he gibbered to himself. _Relax, relax, don't panic, don't panic_—

"Mr. Potter! Mr.—Ah. Would you be wanting this? This… erm… envelope?"

He froze, and then, timidly, he held out his hand. He could feel the slightest of currents move against his skin. Then he felt something drop into the palm of his hand, something that was damp and lumpy, something that he recognized— His hand closed over it, and he let himself sink back in relief.

_It's all right_, he told himself. _You're safe now, you're safe. You're in the Hogwarts hospital wing, and they're gone, they're gone_… He blinked at the stinging he felt at the back of his eyes, and realized that all he could see was darkness.

"…Are you saying, Lupin, that Dolores Umbridge marched into Number 4, Privet Drive…"

A leaden feeling formed in his chest. Why couldn't he see? He had been blinded, but—wasn't there some way—

"…plucked him out and dropped him into this Jaeggar Prison…"

The waves of relief were ebbing away. Did Madam Pomfrey know he was blind? No, she couldn't, because if she did, she'd treat him, he'd see, he'd be seeing things, he'd see light—

"…then waited around with several aurors on the pretense of investigating underage magic?"

A rumble of protests, and then a firm voice that got Harry's attention.

"Unless the wards we've set around Number 4, Privet Drive were badly malfunctioning, that would certainly not be the case," Albus Dumbledore said. "The wards, which I checked, are indeed still in place and working well. They would have notified me of any magical presence."

"But still, Albus, I don't understand!" Molly Weasley cried, her voice carrying throughout the wing. "From what you're saying, no Death-Eaters or unauthorized witches or wizards went to Number 4, Privet Drive!"

"Yes, Molly—"

"But how could his _family_ do that to him?…"

_Family?_ The words landed like a sharp slap. _Vernon is not my family. The Dursleys are not my family_…

"…I know they've never gotten along well, and frankly the uncle is repulsive, but—they're _family_, Albus!"

_They're not my family_, Harry thought again, his anger battering at his weariness; he felt disgustingly filthy at her words—_They're not, how dare she say they are_—

"They simply can't have done it. His very own _family_—"

"_I HAVE NONE!"_ Harry screamed, but all that came out was a hoarse, horrible croak that brought silence upon the entire wing.

Whispers.

"…disturbing the patient, _what_ did I tell you!…"

Shuffling feet around him, robes… Voices… He was suddenly so weary, as though the outburst had sapped what little strength he possessed… "Harry…"

"I don't have a family," he muttered hoarsely, forcing it past the knot in his throat. It was so dark. "I don't have any family…" The thought repeated madly in his head as his lips stopped moving.

Mrs. Weasley's voice was tender and sad. "Of course you do, Harry. You have us."

Harry took a shuddering breath, ignoring the pain of his ribs and lungs. _They can't understand_, he thought. _How can they understand? _He remembered how he had desperately prayed through his first whipping—feverishly, hopelessly—for someone to come and save him. And Vernon had reminded him that nobody would save him, and Vernon had been right. He was alone. He thought it fitting: after all, only he could strike down Voldemort—he, alone. At times, feeling the fleshy hand wipe his own blood and the other man's phlegm all over his face, he was glad he had been so hot-headed and self-important last year that nobody would care to come and see him. Because it let him see, despite his blindness, just how alone he really was.

"Harry," Dumbledore was saying, "you have to understand. If we had any idea, if we had even the slightest clue…"

"I understand, professor," Harry said wearily. "You're right. I was wrong. I apologize." Empty. That was how he felt: empty.

"Poppy," Severus Snape snapped. "Did you do a check on his eyes?"

Harry felt his heart skip a beat. Rustling sounds. "His eyes? No. Why?"

"I'm blind," said Harry, opening his eyes as if for proof.

Silence, and then the expected babbling. Through his weariness, Harry almost felt some vindictive pleasure. He felt a vague wind on his face—someone was waving something in front of his face—and then Mrs. Weasley burst into sobs again.

"Mr. Potter? Would you please open your eyes more widely?" Madam Pomfrey asked, sounding grim.

Harry complied. He felt a tingle of magic around his eyes, heard Mrs. Weasley sob some more. The nurse was silent for a long time, and Harry felt his stomach sink. He felt like a criminal awaiting his verdict.

"Poppy…?"

"Some blunt impact must have dislocated the nerves from his eyes to the optic regions of his brain," the nurse said, and Harry felt the leaden feeling return at the resignation in her voice. "His eyes have also been exposed to a chemical corrosive, most likely a phenol derivative, which have also destroyed most of his main lacrimal gland. His accessory lacrimal glands are still intact, so his eyes will be kept moist, but he won't be able to produce tears when he's crying or when his eyes get irritated…"

"Can you help him?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a shaky voice.

"I'm sorry, but the injury from the chemical corrosive is far too old… I might possibly be able to realign the optic nerves, which would allow him usage of a magical eye, but the chances are small, and beyond that… I'm afraid he won't be able see any time in the future…"

Harry felt his insides turn to lead.

"But—Poppy, there has to be some way! There's—he can't—"

"What do you mean he won't ever see again?…"

_So I'll be blind forever_, he thought numbly. _Never, ever again_. He would never again see light, he would never again see day—he was trapped in an endless night where everything was dark, and where he was lost, utterly lost and alone…

"I'm sorry, Molly, but there's nothing I can do…"

"But—but that's—"

Shock scattered and the impact of the realization slammed through his mind like the stick of a funeral drum, shattering the numbness like a feeble cobweb, and the echoes brought a terrible stinging to the back of his eyes—but there were no tears, there was no release, he was trapped in the darkness, lost and alone in the dark, in the dark, the dark, dark… _You knew_, he told himself numbly, _you knew it was likely you'd never see again, you knew._ _But it still hurts_, he answered himself in a whisper.

"Harry?" Remus asked, voice hoarse and full of anguish. "Who did this to you? Who did this to you?"

_Leave me alone!_ Harry wanted to cry. _Go away. Please go away._ The memory and its shame clawed at him, and an angry, frightened, terrified part of him screamed that the nurse was lying, that he didn't want to go blind, he wanted to see, please, just to see their faces again…

"I hardly think Potter would allow that family of his to blind him," Snape snorted.

_They're not my family!_ Harry wanted to scream, but he was too tired. Far too tired. And a part of him didn't care one whit what Snape said. He wasn't going to see again. The numbness was coming back, encroaching his consciousness like the darkling tide, and he welcomed it with unwept tears…

"Harry? Harry"—an anxious speaker, it sounded like Remus—"who did this?"

He ignored the werewolf, unable to concentrate on anything besides the cold, painful core inside him and the creeping numbness… A babble of words and voices broke out… "Death-Eaters…" "No, it can't have been—" "His relatives…" "Muggle! They're Muggle!" "Who?" "The Umbridge cow, I tell you…" "Impossible…" "Who…"

"Harry?" Albus Dumbledore's voice cut through the storm. "Did the Dursleys do this?"

He was so tired. He wanted to curl and hide from the world, but he felt an insistent probing on the surface of his mind, a probing that wouldn't go until he answered, so he nodded and whispered hoarsely, "Vernon did it." He swallowed and a part of him angrily kicked out the probing thing from his mind, while the rest of him prepared to surrender to sleep…

A swell of whispers that ended when Dumbledore spoke again. "Harry, did you scar hurt at all when Vernon was close by?"

Again the probing, and this time, Harry was too tired to resist. He could only shake his head in no, in an attempt to move away. But it was true: his scar hadn't so much as twinged the entire summer.

The hubbub exploded, but he didn't care because he was slipping into the numbing darkness. One finger stroked the lumpy envelope of paper in his limp hand, and with each unhurried stroke, a little of the anguish within him eased, a little by little by little, until at last he knew no more.

qpqpqp

His eyelids slowly slid open, and for several long moments he waited to be able to see again until he remembered that he was blind—forever blind, and so he closed his eyes with the tiniest of sighs. Even yet, he felt reverberating pains in his ribcage.

_Ding!_

Harry listened to the rustling of stiff skirts as Madam Pomfrey bustled over.

"Awake, are we?" she said brightly.

He kept his eyes closed, mind mercifully blank. His body was sore all over, and he felt so… dirty. He needed a bath.

He heard the clinking of glass. He stiffened as he felt the pillows fluff up on their own to move him into a sitting position: now that moving no longer made him want to scream in pain, the movement of sheets and pillowcases against his skin was too much like hands, too much like the rough, quivering hands that floated over his body…

"You'll need to drink this healing potion, Mr. Potter," the nurse continued. "You were out for a whole three days. I daresay you needed it."

He barely registered feeling the hard rim of a cup against his lower lip—he was still trying to shove the hands out of his mind, hands that were so insistent he forgot about the pain in his ribcage—but the rim tilted, and he felt a steamy liquid against his lips.

"Drink up," the nurse murmured soothingly, and Harry cautiously opened his lips to let the potion in. He felt it simmer down his esophagus and boil in his stomach.

"You're healing very nicely," the nurse said cheerfully. Harry made no response. The pillows began to flatten themselves, easing him back into a sleeping position. Harry tensed as the rustling cloths caressed him… He rapidly stroked the folded, lumpy envelope in his right hand, telling himself that he was safe, that the hands were gone… He felt so dirty, so filthy…

"I'll leave you to rest up, now," Madam Pomfrey said, but Harry was feeling the hands crawl up like legs and float up his back…

He opened his mouth and gathered enough air to speak. "Madam Pomfrey?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"I… need to take a shower." He swallowed. "Now… Please."

"Mr. Potter! You're in no condition to be out of bed—"

"I feel—I feel dirty," he croaked.

A hesitant silence.

"I'm feeling much better," Harry continued. His voice sounded strange to his ears. "I'll be fine. I just really… need a bath. Or a shower. Please." Hands. Hands all over. His clenched the envelope.

"You're in no condition to move, Mr. Potter," the nurse said.

He shivered. "I have to," he said in a dead voice, and shifted his leg out from beneath the covers. It was his left leg, and he felt a deep insistent pain whenever he moved it. His skin stung from the cuts, but the slide of sheets felt like hands…

"Mr. Potter!"

His legs felt cold when exposed to the air. He pushed himself up, biting back groans as his ribs screamed in protest. He managed to push himself to his feet, wondering for a brief moment what the nurse was doing, and began to step away from his cot…

And then he felt it—hands, hands on his upper arms, holding him steady, but oh God the hands were touching him and running cruelly over his wounds, smearing the blood and mingling it with other stickiness—

More hands, and he flinched and waited for the blows to fall…

"…Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter? Oh dear. A relapse. I was fearing this…"

Slowly, the hands and memories backed away, and he blinked. He was aware that all the muscles in his body were tensed, and that his legs were clamped tightly together. The letter was in a death grip in his right hand, and his arms were held shivering across his chest.

He forced himself to relax. The covers were somehow up to his neck again, and he heard Madam Pomfrey fussing, but he'd get no rest short of a nauseating sleeping potion. He felt horribly, horribly dirty.

"Madam Pomfrey," he tried again, "I really do need a bath."

"Mr. Potter! You just had a relapse! And you can barely _stand!"_

"But—"

"You must go to sleep!"

"No," he said forcefully. He struggled to find the right words that would convince her that he really needed this… "I—I always feel hands touching me," he blurted out and indeed, the hands returned. Telling her just that much was painful and difficult, but he was desperate as well as determined, and he knew the wonders that a little pity could invoke (as much as he detested it). "Can't you—maybe you can just levitate me into a bathtub. Please?" he added, voice breaking at the end.

A pause. "Mr. Potter, this is… very much against my better judgment, but—very well."

Harry waited as the covers left him. He was in a flimsy hospital gown, he realized, and he shivered a bit, feeling so… exposed… He heard the nurse mutter an incantation, and then the sheets around him lifted up and before transforming into a stretcher.

"We'll be using one of the healing spas, if the castle permits," the nurse explained, and Harry felt himself floating down the hospital wing. _Healing spa?_ he wondered. He'd never heard of healing spas, and what did she mean, if the castle permits? Too tired to wonder much anymore, he let himself be levitated around a bewildering number of corners before they stopped. Judging from the feel of the air, they didn't seem to be out of the hospital wing.

"I, Poppy Pomfrey, nurse and medi-witch of Hogwarts castle, request entrance to the healing spa on behalf of one Harry James Potter."

Harry felt a slight rumble around him in the walls before there can the sound of a door opening. He thought he felt a tender, almost subservient presence soothing his mind, but it was so faint he was sure he was imagining it, and in the next moment, his senses were overloaded with feeling the heavy moisture in the air and smelling the strange odors of… potions? Shampoos? He wondered what wizard shampoos smelled like besides the spartan ones in the Gryffindor dorm.

He was left hovering in the air on his stretcher, and moments later he heard the sounds of water filling a tub.

"There now, I've filled the tub with some restorative potions and healing draughts," the nurse said, levitating Harry into the air. "I've put many charms on you telling me your condition, mind you, so I'll let you be here alone—but I'll be back in ten minutes, do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said, drawing in a breath as he was lowered, hospital gown and all, into the warm, bubbling water.

He listened to the nurse fuss around a bit more before leaving the room, door closing with a quick thud.

Finally. Moving was difficult, but he managed to pull off the suddenly heavy hospital gown. Dragging it through the water, he heaved it—gasping at the pain in his ribs—over the rim and onto the damp tiles.

He crouched there, waiting to regain his breath and listening to the gurgling water and feeling the steam condense on his skin and hair. He caught the whiff of some strange potions in the water—restorative draughts, probably—and he began the arduous search for soaps and perhaps some bathing towels.

A minute later, he found some hard soap and a bathing towel.

Ten minutes later, and after hoarsely telling the nurse that he would be ready in another five minutes, please, he relaxed back into the water, breathing heavily, skin red as a lobster if he could have seen it.

The moment he had touched the towel and soap, he had started scrubbing—first over the parts that did not hurt so much (which were few and far apart) before venturing over the lighter bruises and scrapes.

He had to. He had to wash off the hands, the dirtiness and filthiness of his memories. He'd redrawn with soap and scrubbing the path of Vernon's hands as they had smeared his blood like paint, wincing and gasping as he pressed on broken bones. It frustrated him maddeningly when he couldn't scrub roughly at most of his skin—the pain in his bones or organs or in the wounds of his skin forbade it.

He had furiously washed and scrubbed the area between his legs at least three times. He had winced at every touch the first time, then returned after a bout of frustration for a second time, and finally attempted a third time when he realized the hands brutally gripping his hips and the tearing pain of his hole simply wouldn't leave him until he had covered all sensations with the sting of having scrubbed himself too hard.

And still, after collapsing exhausted in the tub, he felt the lingering remnants of filth. But he was far too tired, far to fatigued for anymore strenuous washing.

Hand like a spider, he reached out and crept over the rim, twice, until he finally found a gentler soap.

_At last_, he thought irritably as he washed his face and began the search for shampoo. It had been weeks—literally—since he had washed his hair or face properly, and now oil clogged both. It had never happened before—his hair never got this oily, nor his face—but now it did, strangely, and it reminded him all the more of his disgusting, sickening, repulsive, revolting—

Suddenly he dropped the towel and soap and shampoo and slid into the tub until only face was above the surface. The stinging at the back of his eyes was a painful throb.

_What's to become of me?_ he wondered as a knot gathered in his throat. _What am I to do?_ He was blind, totally blind, blind forever—and he would never see his friends again, never see the photos of his parents, never play Quidditch again. (What was it like, the last time he had played? How felt the wind, the sun, the fiery adrenaline, the soaring freedom? He couldn't remember.)

Memories. Hands, and Vernon's voice whispering maliciously, telling him what a useless piece of filth he was. _Freak_. He was a freak. A disgusting freak.

_I'm not_, he told himself, but it was like arguing against a relentless nightmare. _I'm not, I'm_… _I'm not_…

_Yes you are_, he snarled at himself with bitter satisfaction._ The great Harry Potter, blinded and beaten by his Muggle relatives, then raped in a prison_. But then the ire vanished as despair and fear plunged into him.

_What am I to do? What's going to become of me?_ The shadow of the prophecy loomed over him. Either he or Voldemort was going to die, and how was he going fight Voldemort if he couldn't see, if he couldn't even defend himself against a bunch of useless Muggles?

_You're alone_, the voice whispered. _Alone_.

He didn't want to fight anymore. He wanted to curl away and hide until some of the pain and the throbbing behind his eyes went away, until the aching loneliness could lift, but he couldn't. No matter what, he'd have to fight. He didn't want to, but he had to. Just like he didn't want to be blind—he didn't have a choice; it was just his lot, his fate. His bitter fate.


	5. A Letter from Lily

**Chapter 5: A Letter from Lily**

"How is he, Poppy?"

The nurse finished writing something in a heavy ledger before snapping it shut. She glared up at the two men sitting in the office. Both the headmaster and the werewolf looked outwardly calm, but she could see the signs: the penetrating blue eyes that had completely lost their twinkle and the smoldering behind the irises of greenish brown in the eyes of the other man.

She sighed, face grim.

"It depends on how you define 'fine,' Albus," the nurse explained. "I'm going to be blunt with you. He's been abused, beaten, blinded, and raped, and before that, there may have been more. Magic can heal most physical injuries in no time at all, but the mental and emotional problems often run much deeper."

The headmaster closed his eyes for a moment as the werewolf beside him clenched his fists tightly.

"I haven't observed Harry enough to determine the extent of the damage," Pomfrey began carefully, "but I know it's there. For example, he can't stand being touched. He's quiet and isn't seeking company, and I haven't seen him broken down or cry or show any emotion ever since the episode in the bathtub."

Lupin looked up. "Bathtub?"

Pomfrey nodded. "He was trying to cleanse himself of the memory. I monitored him in case anything would happen… I don't think he noticed. That was yesterday."

The man looked as though he were going to cry. "I want to see Harry," he said firmly, though his voice was a little hoarse.

The nurse hesitated.

"Will Harry be in any condition for me to ask him a few questions?" Albus Dumbledore asked in a low, soft voice. He very nearly flinched when two glares skewered him.

"What do you think, Albus?" she snapped, about to say more but stopping herself. The unspoken words hung in the air: even if Harry weren't really, would you stop?

The old wizard sighed. "I do not know."

"He's just a boy, Albus," Remus Lupin said, more than a hint of anger in his voice.

"Do you think he can be 'just a boy' after everything?" Dumbledore asked, glancing up sharply at the two others. "Harry has a very important part to play in this war, and play it he must. He will suffer, and he has suffered already." He let out a deep breath. "He is just human. We are all just human."

"You're just human," Poppy Pomfrey said after a pause.

Dumbledore's smiled wearily. "Yes. I am."

Pomfrey looked from one to the other before sighing in resignation. "I'll let you see him, Albus. My spells show that he's awake now. But remember"—her voice became firm—"he has suffered enough already. Try not to make him suffer even more." _Even if he inevitably will_.

Had they looked, they would have seen a flash of pain and implacable remorse pass over the old wizard's eyes, but those eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened, they were just as calm and kind as before. "I know, Poppy. You know I would never wish to hurt him."

"Now," Pomfrey said, bustling out of her office, "make sure you keep in mind what I say—be gentle, no matter what he does or say, and don't touch him. I repeat: do not touch him. He has a severe negative reaction to being touched. Severus will come around sometime today to give him a potion to heal some of the trickier wounds in his kidneys. I'll be in my office."

She directed then to the bed at the far end of the wing. "Mr. Potter?" she called in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Mr. Potter, you have visitors." She slowly drew the curtains back.

qpqpqp

Not the hands. Please, not the hands.

_A voice crooned as the touches roamed over him, butterfly soft_.

I can't see. I can't see. Just go away please.

_Quivering, roughening, a sharp, humiliating pain that drove everything from his mind except for tears that wouldn't come_.

Go. Please. Go away, I can't see, someone help, please oh God I can't see go away please

_But they wouldn't go. They'd never, ever go away. Cruel, grappling him roughly, trying to make him respond Oh God please no roughly violating him until stop please make it stop I can't see he was retching between his gasps stop please I can't see go away go away help please I can't see … _

_Cool, cleansing air. A breath that peeled away his skin and left it new as a baby's. The hands gone as quickly as they came. His shaking stopped and he could see again: red hair the bright green eyes. They smiled._

Stay.

_It was a happy smile, but it made him feel unquenchably sad, because already he knew they were going. They had driven the hands away, but they weren't staying. _

Stay. Please. Don't leave me alone.

_But she hadn't heard, or wouldn't listen. The smile was still heartbreakingly beautiful and full of love, but he all he could feel was the gloom of imminent loss. Panic crept in._

Don't go.

_His sensations were blurred a bit, and he was aware of being rocked—in someone's lap? or in a cradle, perhaps?—but he was certain about the damp little square of paper in his hands. It was there: solid, soiled, but cherished, giving him a slight tug of hope whenever he touched it. _

_She was going now. A fog had drifted down, and when he could see clearly again, he was surprised to see her again—but she was different. The red hair was black as night, and the green eyes were obsidian; the face, too, had changed, especially with the sharper cheekbones and more aristocratic nose, but the love and the smile were still the same. He gazed in awe before he felt himself floating away, led as though by the gentlest of threads from the damp envelope in his fingers_—

Harry awoke feeling as though he had bubbled up from immeasurable depths. He kept his eyes closed, preferring the illusion that once he opened them, he would be able to see again. His fingers gently stroked the damp envelope in his right hand. Strange how he felt… calmer, safer after touching it gently. It reminded him of something he couldn't remember yet.

From far down the wing, he heard the rustling of robes and the quiet murmur of voices. For a moment, he simply lay there, willing his mind to be clear of all thought and feeling, reveling in the texture of sounds: three voices, rising and falling and weaving, garbling above the background sounds of rustling cloth and chirping birds from outside the open window.

That was before he distinctly heard Remus Lupin's voice, followed by the headmaster's unmistakable timbre and the characteristic rustling of Madam Pomfrey's starched skirts. _I wonder what they're talking about_. Then he snorted, though lightly, still cautious about his newly healed ribs. _The choices are Harry, Potter, and The-Boy-Who-Lived. Not much to choose from, is there?_ He didn't know what he hated more: people right in front of him going on and on about him as if he weren't there, or people timidly whispering about him behind his back.

He shuddered instinctively as he shifted into a more comfortable position. Hands. But they weren't here: he was safe, for the time being. The sensation of lightness was lost, though, and he felt the pains all over his body all the more acutely just as the darkness became more oppressive.

Footsteps coming his way.

"Mr. Potter?" came Pomfrey's surprisingly gentle voice. "Mr. Potter, you have visitors."

_Oh no_, Harry moaned in his head. _Please don't let them be_—

"Hello, Harry," said a familiar voice.

—_Dumbledore. Well. Great._

Harry listened to Dumbledore and someone else—Lupin, probably—shuffle around. There was a faint pop, one of someone conjuring a chair, he realized after he heard four wooden legs clunk on the ground.

Then Remus's voice, hesitant and reassuring at the same time. "Harry…"

Harry forced a ghostly smile on his face.

"We hope you're feeling better today," Dumbledore said in his gentle voice.

_Better_. If better meant drifting carefully in a haze, hazardously treading over the ice-brimmed crater of darkness and pain, feeling numb and then agonizingly sensitive all at once… then he supposed he was 'better.'

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I have to ask you a few questions," Dumbledore went on in a heavy voice.

"We'll be very quick," Remus Lupin assured. "And if you feel worn, just say it, we'll stop…"

"Go ahead sir," Harry interrupted. "I'm fine. Ask your questions, professor."

There was a pause. "Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said at last. "I know I asked this before, but I need you to tell me again if you have been having dreams of Voldemort over the summer."

_Voldemort_. For the first time, Harry understood why people shivered when they said Voldemort, though for him in place of fear there was a heaviness that weighed down his soul and quashed out all thoughts of hope or happiness. _Voldemort_. One word, a stupid sounding name that dictated his life. He marveled at how he had tossed the name around so easily those years ago.

Dumbledore was talking, his voice even gentler than before. "I'm sure you know how crucial this information is for us. He has been altogether too quiet this summer."

_So now I'm the Voldie-meter, am I?_ Harry thought darkly, though he shoved the thought away. What could he expect? It was better than being an utterly worthless freak that nobody wanted…

"We know that he's plotting something," Remus Lupin added. "But he's hidden it from us."

_As if I would know what it is_, Harry thought, a bit bitterly. He sincerely wished that he knew. "Shouldn't you have a more… reliable source, sir, other than my visions?" _Snape_, Harry thought. _There has to be a reason why Snape wouldn't know, unless they're lying to me yet again_…

"Our… er… source hasn't managed to get back into the inner circle yet," Remus explained after a pause.

_Voldemort's not too keen on the whole forgive and forget thing, I suppose,_ Harry mused. "I don't think I'd be of much help either. I barely had a single Voldemort vision this summer." _Vision, not nightmares. You can never run out of nightmares_. "He does seem to be laying low." Harry hesitated. Before he could convince himself that it wasn't important, he said slowly, "There seemed to be… wall, between him an I."

"A wall?" Remus Lupin repeated blankly.

"Occlumency?" Dumbledore asked, sounding a bit hopeful.

Harry gently shook his head. "Not my doing, sir. It's his wall. He's hiding something, I think. Something he doesn't want me to see."

"Yes…" Dumbledore murmured, though he sounded a bit troubled. "All the signs point that way…"

A silence settled. Harry idly stroked the envelope in his hand beneath the blankets, but stopped when he realized what he was doing. He wondered if they saw.

"Albus, are you done?" Remus Lupin murmured. "Harry looks a bit worn…"

"I'm fine," Harry asserted. "In fact, I have a few questions myself that I'd like to ask. They're about my… possessions." _His Firebolt disappeared into the flames and his beloved Hedwig's snowy plumage charred to black_… "I'm sure you know that they destroyed all my things…"

"Not all, Harry," Remus interrupted. "Arthur found your photo album in your room."

"Oh, did he?" A wave of relief swept over him. "That's good." Harry felt a smile stretch his face, pulling at the scabs, until he remembered that he was blind and would never again see the beaming faces in the treasured photographs.

"Well, all my books are gone, and my trunk, and my wand," Harry continued slowly. "I—did Mr. Weasley find my dad's invisibility cloak?"

"No." The werewolf sounded concerned. "Was it still there?"

Harry frowned. "I thought it was. That's the last I remember…" Falling—a splintering pain—darkness. _Please don't let it be lost_… Hedwig, his sight, his Firebolt, and his photo album for he would never see the pictures again: please not his father's invisibility cloak on top of it all…

"We'll keep looking," Dumbledore said gently.

Harry swallowed. "I would like to get a replacement wand, as well as replacements for my robes and other supplies." He was tired of hospital garments.

"Of course. I have already placed an order for a duplicate of your wand with Mr. Ollivander."

"Thank you," Harry said, a bit stiffly, smothering the irritation that rose whenever Dumbledore meddled in his affairs without asking him first.

"There's only one more thing, Harry, before I let you rest," said Dumbledore. "I don't believe Madam Pomfrey has approached you yet concerning this, but St. Mungo's has many skilled therapists, healers, and trainers that can help you recover."

"I won't require any kind of—counselor, sir," Harry replied tightly.

"I understand, my child, but I believe it would be truly advantageous if you had someone help you get used to the ways of the blind."

_Blind_. Despite the sincere gentleness of Dumbledore's tone, the words echoed cold and hard. Perhaps he could scavenge something from this mess and not be too utterly pathetic when Voldemort finally decided to end it all… "That would… be a good idea."

"Yes, and I was thinking," Dumbledore went on, now sounding ominously conversational, "that instead of inviting someone from St. Mungo's, I believe we should ask our… resident specialist for some help."

_Resident specialist? of helping blind people?_ _at Hogwarts?_ "I… who?"

Dumbledore went on in a blithe manner. "I doubt you are aware of this, but eight years ago, Professor Snape suffered a potions accident that left him blind for a year. In that year, he learned and became quite skilled with the ways of the blind in the wizarding world—"

_Snape_. "Headmaster, I understand your motivations, but it won't work."

"Harry, while I know you and Professor Snape have your differences, you must see past them and learn to cooperate—"

Harry cut him off coldly, feeling anger and resentment beginning to boil in him. "It won't work. Last year was a perfect example, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Ah, but perhaps this year won't be like last year, will it?" Harry could hear the twinkle in the voice and the sternness underneath. "You are… much more than you were, even just last year."

Harry fancied that he heard a deep regret in that aged voice, along with… pride? He swallowed uncomfortably.

"I know it will be difficult, but you must try, Harry, and it's for your own safety. There are little outside of the old crowd whom we may trust—"

"For my own safety?" Harry wanted to laugh. _Where were you and your Order in that month of hell?_ A broken sob that had been slumbering as he had slowly recovered burst to life and swam, weeping, to the surface. "Professor Snape may have saved my life many times, but he's never helped making this life of mine worth living. I sincerely doubt that I would be… compatible with his teaching methods, as years in the Potions classroom have shown." His voice had taken on a biting edge, and he relished in the silence that followed. But he didn't say what he had been desperately wanting to cry: why, why didn't they come check on him, why did it have to be him?

Harry heard Dumbledore sigh. The old wizard so weary, but the rage was still too near the surface for Harry to really notice it. "Think about it, will you, Harry?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "I shall."

"He saved your life, you know."

He felt an overwhelming desire to laugh. "Then I should save his by granting his deepest wishes and staying away from him." He snorted, ignoring the pain, and felt some of the rage pass. _They mean well, and they didn't know what was happening to you_, he told himself. _Dumbledore has a point: he can't let non-Order members get too close, not with Voldemort around. _His thoughts took on a sneering edge. _And you can't blame them if they're going to make your choices for you. Not exactly deserving of making your own decisions, are you, freak?_ Harry sighed, feeling dirty again, and helpless and confused. "I'm sorry for snapping." He sighed again. "Good day, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's voice was gentle as always, doing nothing to assuage Harry's lingering guilt. "Rest well, Harry."

_I want to take a bath again_, Harry thought, suddenly very tired. He realized that someone was next to him, and after thinking for a moment, pulling himself out of a soporific daze, he remembered who it was. A little smile crept onto his face. "Hello, Professor Lupin."

"Please call me Remus, Harry."

The werewolf sounded rather… garroted. "Okay… Remus." He paused. "Are you—all right?"

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine? Fancy you asking me! I should be the one asking you..." Harry realized to his dismay how close the last Marauder, who had always been calm, controlled, and soothing, was to tears. "It's just that—first Sirius, and now—"

"Hush, Remus," Harry murmured automatically. "It'll be fine. I'm all right." He heard the werewolf sniff and take a deep breath, stemming the tears. _I wish I could cry_, Harry thought vaguely. But he did feel a bit better. Being able to comfort somebody made him feel… not as dirty, not as small. Not as lost.

"Thanks, Harry, I…" Harry stiffened as he felt a slight movement of air brush his face. "I'm sorry, Harry. I keep forgetting that I'm not allowed to touch you."

Harry forced himself to relax. "I'm… I'm fine." He took in as deep a breath as he could and exhaled slowly.

"I don't think I'll be seeing you in a day or two," the werewolf went on, trying to smooth over the tense silence. "Mission for the old crowd."

_Another one of those 'missions_. "You can't tell me, can you?"

Harry could almost hear the wince in the werewolf's voice. "I'm sorry, Harry. I wish I could, but…" He paused. "Is there anything you want? Maybe a little to eat?"

Harry couldn't stop the chuckle from bubbling out of his throat. "Sorry, but you reminded me a bit of Mrs. Weasley." He paused, feeling a trickle of dread. "Remus, how are they? The Weasleys, I mean. Do they know? About me and—" He moved his left hand around a bit to encompass himself, unwilling to think of words.

"Only the Order members know about it, and Albus has made us swear to secrecy."

Harry felt a wave of gratitude for the old wizard, one that overshadowed the slight irritation at how Dumbledore had once again meddled in matters that were his, Harry's. "Thank him for me, will you?"

"I will."

A gentle silence fell, the kind that swept over the sky as the sun tipped over the mountains. Harry absently stroked the envelope in his hand before he suddenly stilled. "Remus, I… sort of just remembered something, actually." He lifted the little square of paper from above the crisp hospital sheets. "Here, this is a letter I got in the prison—"

The werewolf sounded faintly alarmed. "You got a letter? In the prison?"

"Yes, and it's safe, I know, because I've had it for… a few days already, and it's been in my _mouth_, Remus."

"Oh."

Harry held out the letter. He felt a momentary pang as he felt it leaving his hand, as though he had lost a piece of himself. "Can you read it for me?"

"Of course."

Harry waited in silence, listening to the nearly inaudible sounds of damp paper unfolding. He couldn't help it: he felt slightly nervous, but what harm could come from something that had led him through his shades of misery and made him feel so…? He couldn't find a word for it.

Harry heard the soft clinking of a fine chain, and the werewolf drew in a sharp breath.

"What is it?"

"This…" The werewolf sounded bewildered and awed. "This is an Order pendant."

"An Order pendant?"

"Yes… All members of the Order have something like this. They're emergency portkeys. I don't know whose this is, though."

"What's in the letter?"

More damp paper unfolding. Silence.

"Harry…" Remus's voice was suddenly hoarse and shaking. "This letter… It's from Lily. Your mother."

_Mother_… Harry drew in a sharp breath, and after the sharp surprise faded, he felt another flicker of nervous anticipation. Images from the photo album floated to his mind, pictures of his parents waving happily, but over it all, he heard her voice… _Not Harry! Please_… _Have mercy_… Another voice: _Your parents were freaks just like you, and they'll be glad that you're dead, disgusting freak_… But just as the icy coldness began to take over, another image formed, one that he had almost forgotten the moment he had awakened: red hair, green eyed, the presence in his dreams… _Mum? _

Anxious curiosity wiped his mind clean as Remus began reading.

"'_Dearest Harry, _

_ 'If you are reading this, I imagine I am quite dead and am unable to tell you the secret that was kept for fifteen years. But let me first say this: I love you, Harry, even from where I am. You have the most beautiful eyes (James says they're mine, but they're yours, Harry), the funniest smile, and the silliest affection for that snitch that Sirius got for you for your first birthday. Someday, you will become a great Seeker, though James seems to think you'll do well as a Beater, the way you wave your arms so fiercely.'" _

Harry felt a knot grow and throb in his throat. Though it was Remus who was reading, he could nearly hear his mother's voice. There was something about it that was transcendently different, something he could not remember having heard coming his way, and after a moment, he realized what it was: love, love for him, love of the kind that burned quietly and gently in even the darkest of places.

He lowered his head and the voices flashed through his head again—_not Harry—please—have mercy_—but above the fear, above the coldness, above the deadly green light, he heard and felt it like an explosion of new taste on his tongue: love.

'_I could talk about you forever, and Sirius seems to think that I do, but I must stop now. You probably know that your father and I, along with you, went into hiding under the Fidelius Charm. I fervently hope that we will make it—a family, unbroken—and emerge into a world where the war is over, but as you are reading this, this hope has probably not come to pass.'" _

_No, it hasn't_, Harry replied silently, feeling a throb at the back of his eyes. _You died, and father, too_.

"'_I wrote this letter because certain secrets cannot die with me, secrets that aren't mine alone to keep. Whatever the consequences of this letter be, know this: I love you, and you are my Harry forever.'"_

Harry smiled before feeling the stirrings of dread. What had she meant by 'consequences of this letter'?

"'_To start from the beginning, your father and I fell in love in our seventh year (James says he loved me all along, the prat), and we married soon after we left Hogwarts. Some days before the wedding, in the beginning of November, a band of Death Eaters kidnapped as many Muggle-born women they could, and I was_…_ abducted_.'" There was a shocked silence as the werewolf stopped reading. "James never—they never told us," he whispered.

_Abducted_. Harry felt a cold shiver of dread. He swallowed with difficulty. "Go on."

"_' They put masks onto our faces and blindfolded us. Then they did_…_ unspeakable things to us. I was lucky: I survived, the only one who did so, and the only reason I did was because the Death Eater who took me was a spy for the Order. This that I have concealed in the envelope was the pendant that he gave to me, risking his cover in the process. _

_ 'I married James soon after, even though he wanted to give me time to recover. Nine months later, you were born. I loved you the moment I felt your life force awakening in me; I loved you as you swung your beater fists in my belly; I loved you when were finally born and I realized that you weren't_'"—the werewolf's voice suddenly choked—"'_J-James's son_.'"

Silence. Harry's ears rung with shock. _What is this rubbish, is this some kind of stupid joke?_ Harry wanted to say, wanted to yell, but the next words were uttered, coming relentlessly:

"'_Your biological father, Harry, is the man who saved my life that November night. That man was (or is) our spy_…" A silence as the werewolf's voice caught._ "'Severus Snape.'"_

"That's not true," said Harry immediately. "It's a lie, some stupid joke." Snape? His father? The thought was ridiculous. "Snape's not my father, it's some—some fucked up lie." But even as he said the words, doubt drowned his mind—what if it _was_ true? It was utterly preposterous, but—what if—?

"It's—it—"

"Remus?" _Damn it_, Harry swore in his head, wishing he could see so he could snatch the letter and see what was really written there. The thought of Snape as his father… it was—

"Shall I—shall I go on?"

"Yes," said Harry. "But it can't be true." Vaguely he thought that he sounded like he was begging, but that was because it couldn't be true, it simply couldn't. "Go on. What does the rest of it say?"

Remus Lupin took a deep breath and resumed reading.

"'_I'm sure you're quite shocked at this, Harry, but remember that Severus is not a bad person. He never was. He is a spy for the Order, and that requires a courage and sacrifice even the bravest of Gryffindors may not know how to give. In his own way, he has faced Voldemort far more times than anyone else—even Albus Dumbledore. _

_ 'I am sorry I am not here to tell this to you, but this is the truth, and if you are anything like your father, you will want to know the truth, damn the consequences. Perhaps I should have told the truth earlier or voiced my suspicions when I still had you, but when you were born and I was sure, the war's demands made it impossible for me to speak, and before that, I loved you too much to care. A month after your birth, I gave you a potion to make you look almost identical (your eyes simply wouldn't change) to James. This potion is unlike a glamour: the change is physical, but it eventually wears off, and you will change__—__physically__—__once again. This potion's effects will have faded by the time you are sixteen, and over the next six weeks, your looks will change dramatically to reflect how you would look had you not taken the potion. _

_ 'Take this to heart, Harry. Severus is not a bad person. Give him time; be patient. Voldemort hurt him just as much as he hurt me, and you, and all the rest of us. Give this letter to James if he is there to read it. Tell him that he has never been less than what any girl could wish for in a kind and loving husband, and tell him that I love him deeply. _

_ 'Harry, never forget that I love you. I only regret that I will no longer be there to say it so myself. And so I'll kiss your one-year-old forehead and seal this letter with a kiss and all my love, and wish you all the happiness a mother can wish for her child.' _

_ 'Your loving mother, _

_ 'Lily Potter_'"

It was Remus who broke the silence.

"Harry… We should bring this to Albus, he'd—"

Harry felt a rush of white anger fill him, bursting through the daze of his shock. "Dumbledore!" he spat. "Don't you dare tell Dumbledore, Remus, or anybody else!" His voice had risen but through his throat it came out as a painful rasp, but he didn't care: he needed the anger to keep away the swirl of confused emotions that raged inside him.

"But Harry, _think_, this is far too big a secret to keep, and Albus has to know—"

"IT'S MY BLOODY SECRET, AND NOBODY WILL KNOW IF YOU DON'T SAY A THING!"

"Harry! It's too big a secret, people will notice in—what, a month's time?—and then what?"

_SO WHAT?_ Harry wanted to snarl out, but after his outburst, his anger had faded somewhat, clearing his mind enough for room for thought. _He's right_. If the potion wore off the way his mother said it would, he'd have little time left before he was surrounded by whispers and the headlines would begin screaming about his dubious origins. _I am a bastard, after all_, he thought, quelling the urge to succumb to hysterical laugh.

But a darker though took its place: what if Voldemort found it? He was protected by his mother's blood magic, and if Snape was his blood… That leaden feeling came over him again. It was as though a dead weight had settled over his stomach.

Remus was still speaking, his tone rushed but placating. "I know you're still rather resentful of Professor Dumbledore, Harry. Frankly, I am too, but we can't afford to hold back information, and you have to—we have to—"

"Get over my stupidity and tell the professor," Harry interrupted caustically. His voice sunk into hoarse, painful depths as he remembered. He felt suddenly weary. "Like I should have done last year, with Sirius."

"Harry, it's not your fault…"

"I never said it's my fault!" he snarled. _Is it Dumbledore's fault that I was beaten and then raped?_ He took a calming breath, ignoring the ache in his ribs, ignoring the guilt that gnawed at his soul. "But how can it be true?" He felt angry but confused and—lost, all at once. All those comments about how he looked so much like his 'father,' James, how similar they were, how brilliant his 'father' was—none of it was really true. His father wasn't and had never been James. He felt a part of him crumbling. "I—Snape—"

"Harry, don't worry, it'll be fine—"

"Do you care?" Harry blurted out. He lowered his head. "I'm—I'm not James's son anymore. Do you…" _Don't hate me. You'll hate me now. I hate myself. _

"N-no! Of course not. What made you think…"

Harry gave an involuntary sigh of relief, feeling tired. "Thanks, Remus," he muttered. "I… What do I look like? There's about two weeks worth of change already, I think. Do I… look like him already?"

Harry heard the werewolf hesitate, and when Remus finally spoke, he sounded reluctant. _Is it really that bad?_ Harry wondered with dread. "A bit… around the nose and hair…"

Harry groaned. "You're right, Remus, about the secret being too big to keep." He frowned. "People will suspect, and I doubt a glamour will be enough to fool everyone. Dumbledore _will_ find out, but _I'm_ telling him, Remus, and on my own terms." He lifted his head abruptly to face the werewolf. "Swear, Remus, that you'll never to speak of this unless I give permission."

"Harry…"

Both of them froze: there were footsteps, sharp and swift, coming from the corridor outside the hospital wing.

_Shit!_ "Now, Remus! Someone's coming! If you don't swear_—_if you don't swear, this'll the _last_ time you'll hear me speak to you again." He was exhausted, fatigued, but he went on. "I mean it, Remus, and I swear it, I swear it by—by Sirius."

"Harry! I—You_—"_

Footsteps, closer.

"Fine, I'll_—_I'll swear."

The person had paused at the end of the hospital wing before advancing, quicker.

"By what?" Harry demanded fiercely. "Swear it, the whole thing! By Sirius." _Damn it, hurry up!_ And those footsteps were awfully familiar. _Oh, no, please, please don't let it be him, anyone but him_…

Finally, hesitantly, the werewolf spoke. "I_—_I swear by Sirius that I won't say a thing about this unless you let me—"

Those footsteps. They couldn't be anyone else's. _Shit_. He was nearly overcome with the desire close his eyes in exhaustion and curl up away from all the troubles in the world. "Remus, give me the envelope, and the letter, and the pendant." Rustling sounds of paper, footsteps coming more quickly—"Hurry!"

"What do you have there, Potter, Lupin? I would think…"

The iridescent clinking of the Order pendant, and suddenly Harry had the familiar weight in his hand. Quickly he withdrew it, hiding it under the covers, on his chest.

"Lupin, why did I just see you sneak an Order pendant to Potter?"

_Don't say a thing, Remus_, Harry growled in his head, his own heart pounding. He couldn't remember Snape ever sounding so ominous, so cold.

"Um…"

"It's between Remus and me, Professor," Harry cut in, his hands closing more tightly around his envelope.

"Potter." Harry stiffened at the tone. Its hatred was too similar to the loathing in Vernon's voice. "Give it to me."

Harry suppressed a shiver. Hands. He could feel them at the edge of his mind, ready to plunge in.

"I don't think it's a good idea, Harry's still unwell…"

"POTTER." Harry flinched at the potion master's harsh snarl. "Hand it over. Now."

"N-no." He took another shuddering breath, but before he could say anything else, there was a rush of air, and cold, steely hands were on him—

"Snape, you can't touch—"

_You disgusting little freak_—

Panic overwhelmed, stampeded his mind—

"STOP IT, CAN'T YOU SEE HE'S RELAPSING—"

_Rough hands drifting over him and bruising his hips_—

He jerked into a little ball, clamping his legs together as tightly as he could; he pushed himself as far away as he could from the hands, gasping desperately—

_Where are you freakish friends now, eh? Not so high and mighty anymore_…

"REMUS! SEVERUS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY PATIENT?"

Another hand—he jerked away with a strangled cry, and felt himself slipping before he fell and hit something cold and hard—

_Quiet now, my little_… _son_…

He was jerked into the air, felt the hands all over him—

Touching—

Then someone shouted something, he with a sudden rush, darkness fell.


	6. Decisions in the Dark

_A/N: Many thanks to Yih for the speedy beta._

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* * *

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**Chapter 6: Decisions in the Dark **

It started all over again.

Hands, the hands, they came. Touching him, grabbing him: hard, rough, sweaty, cold. He couldn't see where the hands were coming from. He couldn't see anything.

_Freak.__Your worthless parents were freaks, disgusting freaks just like you are_.

But there was a new voice in the darkness, a voice from Snape's pensieve: James, saying the same thing (_freak, little freak_), and Sirius echoing, and then the voices of the Weasleys and Dumbledore and Hermione (_nobody wants you, freak_); but worst of all was the scathing, biting voice of Snape himself (_where are your so-called friends now, freak?_)…

Pitiless flint eyes, staring. _Freak. You're not my son_…

He felt his mother there, calling to him, demanding that he look at her, but he turned his head away, unwilling to see the disappointment and revulsion in her eyes too…

"…get my hands on those two! It's just a dream, Mr. Potter, so wake up now… Only a dream…"

Harry felt the black claws of the nightmare slip away, and suddenly he assaulted with wracking pains all over his body as he awoke. He was wet from sweat, and the cold, tangled sheets made him shiver.

"Detrimental on the healing process, _Sopio_ is," the voice muttered, and Harry dimly identified it as Madam Pomfrey. "But I had to cast that spell to make you stop convulsing. Awake now? Good. Now, drink this and go back to sleep."

He felt himself propped up, and he groaned at the pain that speared his body. His mind cleared, and memory came back to him.

_Snape_. Snape was his father. Oh God.

Something hard pressed against his lips.

"Drink up, now."

He drank, barely tasting the grainy texture of the draught. He felt numb, as numb as a dead thing, and one thought alone whirled relentlessly in his head: _Snape, my father is Snape_…

Freak. Disgusting freak.

"There's a good child."

He let himself get shifted back into a sleeping position like a wooden puppet. The pain from his body was forgotten, lost in the haze that consumed his mind.

"Go on, sleep now."

The sheets untangled themselves and suddenly became dry; he felt the slightly itchy results of a quick cleaning spell.

He needed a bath. He needed a bath.

But the effects of the potion had gripped him and he was asleep before he could hear the nurse mutter oath after oath, swearing pain and torment on the werewolf and potion master who had dared disturb her patient.

qpqpqp

Albus Dumbledore watched the mediwitch snarl and roare at the potions master, who was sitting sullenly in a corner.

"_NO SENSE AT ALL!_ You _know_ he's been horribly abused, and I _told_ everyone NOT to touch him!"

Madam Pomfrey paused to brush some hair out of her face before resuming her tirade.

"I don't know why you had to touch him—and _grab_ him like that—but there is _NO EXCUSE_. None, whatsoever!"

Snape sneered. "If I had known that the boy was such a melodramatic actor, I wouldn't have touched him at all."

"Severus," Dumbledore warned.

The mediwitch had stopped moving. For a moment, Albus Dumbledore wondered if she was finally going to hex the potions professor into next week and beyond. Instead, she lifted her right hand in the air, and said in a clear, ringing voice,

"As mediwitch and nurse of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I invoke Helga's Oath and hereby banish Severus Snape from the Hogwarts infirmary—"

"—unless in dire emergency himself," Dumbledore added sternly.

The nurse nodded, looking satisfied and rather grim. "Unless he is in dire need himself."

Severus Snape had a very dark look on his face. "Albus, you simply can't be serious—"

"I agree with Poppy's decision," the headmaster interrupted. "Harry's in a very delicate state. I do trust you, Severus, but I know that sometimes, especially when it comes to the Potters, you have some… difficulties."

_If looks could kill_, Dumbledore mused, _I'd be dead nine times over already_. The potions master was on his feet in one smooth motion and with two forceful steps was at the door—

"Severus. Stay, please."

Snape paused, tense as a bow, but turned slightly to glower at the headmaster.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "I'm sorry, Severus, but I'll not allow Harry to come under any kind of harm if I can help it." With a final, half-apologetic, half-warning glance to the Potions Master, she left.

"Severus," said Dumbledore, sitting back in his chair, "we have a few things to discuss. Please, take a seat."

The potions master, Dumbledore noted, had managed to control his facial expression again, fixing it into a cold, sour, accusing sort of look.

"Lemon drop?"

Snape growled.

"At least you've set a record," Dumbledore remarked while enjoying the lemon drop. "You're the first professor to be Banished since Edmund Bundy, those… nine years back?"

The old wizard took out another lemon drop and unwrapped it, ignoring Snape's petrifying glare. "Don't look so sour, Severus. It doesn't suit you, no matter how much you like to think otherwise. And Poppy's right, in this case. You know it too."

"Are you finished yet, headmaster?" Snape snarled. "I have quite a few things to finish…"

"No you don't, Severus." Dumbledore dropped his airy tone. "Tell me, Severus—why did you do it? Why did you grab Harry?"

Snape's face turned stony.

"Severus…"

"When I walked into the hospital wing," he snapped, "I saw Lupin hand the boy an Order pendant." He paused and looked as though he were debating whether to go on or not, but finally decided on silence.

"Interesting," the headmaster murmured. "Too bad Remus isn't here to tell us. But that does not explain why you made so drastic a physical move. An Order pendant is unusual, yes, but it couldn't have warranted such actions."

The potions master glared fixedly at a spot above the headmaster's head.

Dumbledore sighed. "Very well, Severus. I hope that, in good time, you will tell me. For now, you are excused."

Snape got up stiffly and left without another word.

qpqpqp

_They are foolsss. _

_Yes Massster_…

_Foolss for failing such a simple tasssk_…

_May I eat them, Massster?_

_Not yet, my dear, but if they fail again_…

Severus Snape flinched as he watched Nott gasp under the Cruciatus.

"Such a simple task, to track down three Muggles," the Dark Lord was hissing, jabbing his wand and causing Nott to twist onto his back. "But you _failed_. I gave you a deadline, but you did not meet it. Nott, tell me why I should let you keep your miserable life."

Snape averted his eyes from where Nott was cowering. The gibbering, desperate words that came out were the usual: begging the merciful lord to please spare them and let them prove themselves worthy next time, etc. But he hated watching the writhing victims and hearing the quivering voices because he knew that was what he looked like and sounded like whenever he was pleading his loyalty and forgiveness at the Dark Lord's feet.

But he vowed to himself that when it came to the day that he was exposed (he wasn't looking forward to it, but it would come inevitably), he wouldn't cower. He'd give the Dark Lord a piece of his mind before he was tortured by that madwoman Lestrange and eaten by that oversized reptile.

The Dark Lord flicked his wand and Nott left a bloody trail where he skidded over the floor into the ring of Death-Eaters. "You are ssspared—for now," the Dark Lord whispered. "Do not expect such mercy in the future, Nott."

Lestrange and that infernal snake both wore disappointed expressions. Snape shivered.

"Th-thank you, m-my lord… You are ev-ver m-m-merciful—"

"Severus!"

Snape felt his stomach clench in dread but he walked up smoothly to where Nott had been moments before.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"What news from that Muggle-loving fool? Have they found the Potter boy yet?"

"Dumbledore's little Order finally found him in a place called Jaeggar Prison, and he is now in Hogwarts," said Snape in a humble voice, relaying everything he and Dumbledore had agreed upon. "From what I understand, Potter was in a rather bad condition."

"Oh?"

"He was badly beaten and grievously injured. Furthermore, he is now blind, my Lord, though by how, Dumbledore does not know. The old fool suspects the boy's Muggle relatives"

"Blind. Indeed. And what does Dumbledore plan to do about it?"

"I believe the old fool plans to hire a St. Mungo's specialist to train the boy."

"Ah, I see…"

Snape swallowed. Whenever he was withheld like this, nothing good could happen. "Yes, my Lord?"

The hiss was sharp. "Why did you not tell me this earlier?"

"Earlier, my Lord? I don't quite understand…"

"Lucius… Come forth…"

One of the Death-Eaters stepped forward. Snape eyed the figure with dislike.

"My Lord," Lucius Malfoy murmured in a very oily manner. "When I passed Jaegger Prison some days ago, I was told that an imposter—impersonating me—went into the prison and rescued a boy who was barely alive. The boy was identified as Potter. The imposter remains unknown, though on that day a werewolf in Dumbledore's little Order was sighted outside the prison…"

Snape watched the Dark Lord's malicious smile with apprehension. "Care to explain why I was not informed of this at our lasst meeting, Severusss?"

"My Lord… I only found out the information today—"

"_Crucio!"_

Snape collapsed and a strangled scream struggled out of his throat.

"What use are you as a spy if you cannot extract such precious information? Or, perhaps you are not really a ssspy for me after all, Severuss…"

"My Lord! I—"

"_Crucio!"_

The waves of pain thundered through him, trampling his nerves. When it finally lifted an eternity later, he thought dazedly: _He's only playing on suspicions. He doesn't know, or I'd be suffering from worse than the Cruciatus_… "My Lord, I c-can explain…" He let himself shiver and cower, knowing such displays made the Dark Lord more lenient. "That infernal nurse, my Lord… Pomfrey, she banned us… those in Dumbledore's Order… from the Hospital wing, saying that she was… concerned over Potter's healing."

"Tsk, tsk. Getting to Potter seems near impossible, does it? But, Severus, and I'm sure you'd agree, that nurse wouldn't deny entrance to someone _truly_ in need, would she?"

Snape's eyes widened but they snapped shut and he shrieked a moment later when the pain returned, yipping with insane ecstasy as it consumed his mind. He had a feeling of flesh tearing and burning, and it was unbearable, unbearable…

_That Muggle-loving fool_.

_When you take him, let me eat him_.

_Yess, Nagini_…_ He thinksss he can predict my movementsss_, _but he forewent that chance when he let the boy go_.

_And now, Master, the block you created in the link is impenetrable. For the old fool, it issss too late_…

_Yessss, my dear_… _I will take what is mine. It is too late for him_.

qpqpqp

Harry woke up knowing something was wrong. He frowned for a long moment before he finally remembered. Snape was his father.

The realization washed against him like acid, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly before trying to go back to sleep again.

Sleep did not come.

He realized he still had that letter in his hand, and had been stroking it. His fingers stilled, and for a moment, he wanted to rip the letter into a thousand tiny pieces and mash them under his foot. But then he remembered his mother's words and the love they held, and he suddenly couldn't bear the thought of hurting this letter, this last remnant of his mother's love. (The scar didn't count. It felt more like a reminder of Voldemort's presence than anything else.)

Sighing, he turned over, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He was rather pleased that the aches he felt all over his body were fading; besides the ones in his ribs and legs, they were almost like phantom pains.

Like hands.

_Snape is your father_.

He turned over restlessly and clenched hard around the letter, steering his mind away from all depressing thoughts. _A bath would be nice_, he mused. From the end of the hospital wing, he heard the sound of rustling skirts.

"Awake now, Mr. Potter?"

Harry opened his eyes in recognition and nodded slightly. He didn't feel much like speaking.

"Now, lay back. Let me do a checkup for you."

Harry complied, still holding the letter as the nurse waved her wand over him, muttering under her breath.

"Much better," she said at length, sounding slightly surprised. "Your injuries are almost completely cured." There was a clinking of glass. Harry felt himself shift into a sitting position, the sheets sliding over his skin. "Here, drink these. In a few days, you'll be as good as new. Well, almost. You'll have a slight limp, and you'll have to be careful about your ribs, and you'll need _much_ more food, but we'll fatten you up…"

_And I'll still be blind_, Harry thought dully, but said nothing. He shivered. Judging from the noises outside and the feel of the hospital's wing, it was probably night.

"Can I take a bath, please?" Harry asked.

The request surprised the matron only for a moment. "A bath? I don't see why not. We'll use the Healing Spa again, shall we?"

Harry nodded his acquiescence. He felt himself floating up, and couldn't help but grumble under his breath, "Can't I walk?"

"You can't, actually," the nurse said conversationally as she floated Harry along. "The muscles in your legs have atrophied quite a bit, and there's still some healing to do in that leg. Don't worry, you won't be in bed for too long," the nurse assured when Harry sighed morosely. "As if I can keep you in bed anyhow… But I'll be performing a few spells to speed your recovery. You'll still be very weak, and I'd advise two more months of bed rest—"

"_Two months?"_

"Yes, but knowing you, nothing short of tying you the bed will keep you resting for even half a month. Here we are. I, Poppy Pomfrey, nurse and medi-witch of Hogwarts castle, request entrance to the healing spa on behalf of one Harry James Potter."

Harry heard the sound of a door opening almost eagerly before all the words had left the witch's mouth. Pomfrey chuckled. "The castle does seem to like you, Mr. Potter." Harry felt himself being lowered towards the sound of churning water and felt the warm steam condense on his face. "I'll come by to check on you in fifteen minutes, all right?"

Harry nodded and listened for the sounds of the door closing behind the nurse. He waited a few more moments before shrugging out of the hospital robes and letting himself slide with a wince and a sigh into the bubbling water.

He splashed some water onto his face, washing it gently out of his eyes and over his forehead and nose…

His hands froze. His nose. It was much bigger. And no wonder. It was Snape's nose.

He was seized by a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. All those years of called Snape a big-nosed, oily git, and he was one too…

His mind went to Sirius's sneer of _Snivellus_, and Harry was suddenly glad Sirius wasn't here to see him like this. He imagined the hateful words and searing contempt being directed to him, and his heart clenched at the terrible thought.

_Sirius, wouldn't, would he? _

His mind went to the memory of that clear night at the end of his third year, of Sirius telling him in a voice hoarse with wonder and pride that he was truly his father's son…

_But I'm not_, Harry thought, feeling an indescribable anguish as well as that strange urge to laugh. Images of a smiling man with messy hair and an arm around his red-haired wife floated inexorably to his mind—_I'm not James Potter's son,_ He thought bitterly. _I never was_. _There never was a Harry Potter, there never was a Boy-Who-Lived: there was only me—Snivellus Jr._…

He felt a terrible rage smoldering inside him, burning to ashes the layers of numbness he had wrapped around himself. He was upset, mad, furious at everything and everyone, especially Dumbledore and his Order and Vernon and _Snape_—all of whom had made him endure eleven years of neglect and coldness and then left him to be beaten, blinded—and now, on top of it all, it turned out that the man he held in utter contempt, whom he hated above (almost) everything else—was his father.

_Why?_ he wanted to scream, but he held it inside, and it changed into a wave of self-loathing. He was weak, beaten, blind, sniveling, a disgusting, slimy, greasy bastard, so easily beaten, so easily tricked, so revoltingly weak that he couldn't even stand being _touched_—

His hands clenched around one of the handles on the rim of the spa, and with a _crack!_ he felt it break under his hands. His head cleared a bit as the crashing waves of wretchedly angry magic receded. He down the handle and tried to calm himself. He wasn't going to throw a tantrum or weep or wail or drown in self-pity and let himself be more of a weak, sniveling, pathetic little freak than he already was.

_And Snape being your father hardly changes things_, he told himself, getting a towel and scrubbing himself until he was bright red. _The Prophecy remains unchanged. It's still you who has to kill Voldemort. It's still you._ He sighed. _Who your father was hardly matters_. _It's not as though you remember having a father, do you?_ He stoically ignored the memory of the photos of a joyously beaming man with warm brown eyes and his wife, a smiling woman with red hair. _This is so stupid! Nothing matters. You're still Harry, you're still the wizarding world's Boy-Who-Lived, you're still the one in that bloody Prophecy, you're still blind, and that's that_. _And maybe_… _maybe people will hate you now, and less people will die because of you_.

The anger was gone, replaced by an icy coldness. The knot in his throat stayed.

He hefted himself out of the water, suddenly exhausted. A towel had appeared next to him (where there really house-elves _everywhere_?) and he wrapped himself in it. He sat there, hunched over, and felt the steam slowly dissipate…

Minutes later and wincing a bit, he got himself into a new set of hospital robes and reached over to where he had safely put his mother's letter. He found it and frowned thoughtfully. _I have to keep it safe and secret. I'll probably show it to Dumbledore in the end, but I can't let anyone else—especially someone with connections to Voldemort or the Daily Prophet—find out_. He briefly considered letting Snape read the letter (sometimes in the far future), but decided against it: the letter was too precious to risk Snape touching it, and ripping it, and snarling at it, and gnashing his teeth at.

So he'd have to hide it. The question was where. He didn't have a trunk anymore; he didn't even have any pockets. Carrying it around all the time was going to be conspicuous and inconvenient. His thoughts ran to possible hiding places in the castle. Though there were obviously plenty of places to hide it, but he was blind, and could barely stand…

Strange. Madam Pomfrey usually came earlier than this. _Perhaps she's got an emergency_, Harry thought, standing up on wobbly feet, the envelope clutched in one hand. _Pomfrey has a point_, he realized with a sigh. He could barely walk. He reached out a hand hesitantly and found a wall. Gritting his teeth, he moved towards where he knew the door was, keeping his hand on the tiled wall and his feet inching forward slowly. His leg hurt, and after a while, he was beginning to breath heavily from his exertions…

Ah. He felt the wall end in a corner. Finally. As much as hated to admit it, the nurse was right: already he was dead tired, but he took another step forward and traced his hand in front of him until he reached an indentation… His fingers touched something wooden that was charmed dry. He leaned forward tiredly and the door swung open smoothly.

He swallowed and took a painful step out. It was startling how different the air felt: drier, clearer, colder, and for a moment he felt panic boiling within him at this sudden, new environment. But the moment passed and he reached for the wall…

Instead, he touched smooth stone. Rounded, sculpted… a statue.

Harry paused, an idea forming in his head. _Hiding it in plain sight might work_, he thought, tracing the contours of the statue with trembling fingers. He paused, and a smile curled open like a tender, unsure leaf on his face: just his luck that the statue had a roll of bandages in the crook of its elbow. Harry held up his mother's letter and carefully tucked it inside.

He stepped back and suddenly felt melancholy and lost, as though he'd lost the string that faithfully pulled him towards the light, and he wanted desperately for a moment to snatch it back—this last memento of his mother, no longer by his side, haphazardly hidden away—but instead he turned and felt a bit freer now that he could use both hands to feel the walls.

He was still wondering which direction the hospital wing was when he heard a gasp and the swift rustling of skirts.

"Mr. _Potter! _How—you're—" He felt a brisk brush of magic, and then he was floating horizontally. He sighed inwardly and let the frantic nurse's words wash over him. "The thought of you! Traipsing about the halls when you are clearly unwell! You should be in _bed!_ You shouldn't even be _thinking_ of walking!"

_She sounds slightly nervous, for some reason_, Harry noted, and wondered if walking a few steps had really been that detrimental. Before he could ask, however, he had been floated swiftly to his cot and had the covers tucked soundly under his chin.

"It's past midnight, Mr. Potter," she groused as she flicked her wand and dried his hair completely. "I can't give you another dose of dreamless sleep potion or you might develop an addiction, but for Merlin's sake, go to sleep!"

With that, she was off.

_Sleep, hah, fat chance_, Harry thought gloomily as he listened to the quiet noises of the hospital at night. From one of the open windows he could hear the soft whisper of the breeze, the symphony of cicadas… Birdsong and owl's hoots, quiet and contemplative… Somewhere down the hall, a torch sparked and guttered… To his left, there was a strange, erratic, rustling noise… Quite close and familiar, and yet…

He tensed as he identified the noise: breathing. Someone else was in the wing.

He stayed very still and listened closely. The breathing was increasingly erratic, and he heard the rustle of sheets, and then he heard an almost inaudible groan…

_It's another patient_, he realized, and relaxed a moment before the mystery patient moaned aloud, a pained, desperate sound.

_And he's not a student_, Harry noted, listening to the sounds become more and more turbulent. _But who? A staff member? Why isn't Pomfrey here, he sounds like he's in pain_… Briefly he wondered if this was what he sounded like in his nightmares—the tossing and turning, the incoherent moans…

"I… sorry… I had… to…"

Harry froze as he identified the voice. Minus the sneer, minus the biting cold and bitter sarcasm, it was still unquestionably Snape.

"I… don't want…"

_How did he get hurt all of a sudden?_ Harry felt a twinge of tension and nervousness at merely being in Snape's vicinity, but Snape was speaking again, in that same tortured tone, and Harry couldn't help but listen with sudden curiosity.

"Please…"

It was strange—frightening, almost—how vulnerable Snape sounded. There was nothing of the fearsome potions master in this mere man, twisting and tossing in the throes of a nightmare…

"For… forgive me… I had to… for Al—bus, and… forgive me…"

_Forgive him? Forgive him of what? And Albus—Professor Dumbledore?_ He listened avidly, shivering a bit at the pain in the hoarse voice, but he could hardly make head or tails of it. Yet the pain and the strangled whimpers were unmistakable.

The tone changed slightly. There was fear, raw fear in it now.

"Adeline… No… I don't know her, not at all… I tell you, I don't know her!"

Harry tensed at the sudden burst of volume at the end.

"She… I…" Silence. Harry held his breath. "So she's the one with the lovely eyes." Harry shivered: the voice sounded so dead. "Black eyes… Black… Then yes… I killed her. It was… quick. I had to. _Avada Kedavra_."

Harry froze. Killed. _Avada Kedavra_. Snape had killed. Killed… A thousand questions of why, how, when, who filled his mind, and dimly, he processed the thought: his _father_ was a murderer…

"No… I… I didn't laugh when she died, I—" A choking sound. "I didn't touch her! I killed her before Lucius could make it worse for her, the bastard… I h-had to, I—it's not true, I… spy… for Albus…"

Harry felt himself getting lost in the strange monologue, but there was something in those words and in that wrenching voice he felt was clear as day, something that he could understand—

"I don't serve… _him!_ I don't… not V-Vo-_Voldem-mort_… I… hate him, I… I spy for Albus, I—ask him, ask him! It's the truth! Why don't you Aurors believe me? I'm telling the truth!"

Tossing, turning, a gasp; Harry wished he were far away and couldn't hear this, but at the same twisted moment, he felt drawn to it like a stranger to a mirror.

"_Caius Cinna, what do you want of me?_ I—I am a spy, I spy for Albus… I—please, stop, not the—don't—please don't—anything, I—_aggh!"_

Harry jumped and froze when he heard the sudden sounds of hurried footsteps.

"Oh Merlin, I forgot, how could I _forget?"_ _It's only Madam Pomfrey_, Harry murmured to himself as he identified the frenetic voice. He relaxed minutely. "Oh Merlin, I can't believe I forgot about your nightmares, Severus! I'm so sorry, I'm—shh, hush now. You get them after every meeting with that monster, I remember." She was now muttering things in a soothing voice. "No wonder you insist on your own chambers, Severus… Go on, drink it, all of it now, and I'm…"

A lapse that Harry figured was a yawn from the tired nurse.

"Severus, I am so—I am so incredibly sorry—I shouldn't have Banished you, if I hadn't, _he _wouldn't have done this to you …"

A pause. Harry kept his face blank and breathing slow, even though his head was spinning with questions. He heard Madam Pomfrey give a sigh.

"Good night, Severus. I am sorry. You'll be fine in the morning." Another silence stretched, broken only by the soft breathing of three people. When Harry was certain Madam Pomfrey had fallen asleep, he heard a gentle rustle (not of the stiff skirts, but of a dressing gown), shuffling footsteps, and silence reigned over the ward once again.

Harry swallowed and relaxed as he listened to Snape's deep, even breathing. His mind was a mess as it went over the words again and again. The meaning became clearer each time around. Snape, he knew, was a spy for the Order, and apparently had been hurt at a meeting that night, perhaps due to something the nurse had done. Briefly, Harry noted that his scar hadn't even twinged, but his mind returned to Snape's words, and he remembered that, as part of posing convincingly as a Death-Eater, Snape would have had to kill…

Harry shuddered at the thought. He hadn't intentially killed Sirius or Cedric, he still felt their merciless gazes burning him in his nightmares. But to say the actual words, to actually shed the steaming blood…

_He's begging for forgiveness_, Harry thought. _He hates himself for what he must do, but he still does it_… His mind went to the other words Snape had uttered, about Aurors… _After Karkaroff gave him away the first time Voldemort was around, Snape was probably taken, and_ _questioned_… Scenes—more of the sounds than their vague images—from Dumbledore's pensieve floated to the surface of his mind. The grim voices of the aurors, the screams from those being accused, questioned…

Snape's gasps and tortured voice washed over his soul once more, and he suddenly felt a peculiar and strangely new empathy. Snape was, in his own way, facing and battling Voldemort at each and every Death-Eater meeting he went to. It was different from how Harry had faced the Dark Lord, but they each had their way of fighting, and both were embroiled in a war where they had little choice, both had lost just as much as they had gained, and both had been hurt, grievously hurt…

_And he's my father_, Harry thought, and suddenly the unpalatable thought was not so terrible. In fact, in a strange way, he was almost… comforted. Comforted that someone else understood pain of this kind, that someone else was forced to face monsters, both outside and within, every day, every night… That he wasn't alone.

_He's still a prejudiced, biased, mean old git_, Harry thought quickly, beating away the new and rather ridiculous sentiments. _I hate him, and he hates me_. But the thought felt ridiculously petty the instant it formed. Their enmity, based on grudges that should have died years ago, seemed so insignificant when compared to everything else…

His mind, on its own accord, went back to Dumbledore's proposition, of Snape teaching him the ways of the blind. Quite suddenly, with Gryffindor finality and not without sense of dread, he knew what he had to do.

qpqpqp

There is a hole that nobody remembers in the side of Hogwarts castle near the lake. It hides behind a grove of grass, and nothing comes out of it besides a thin trickle of water.

As the sun was rising, a translucent form darted over the lake, skimming the surface like a bird, but moving with the undulating motions of a lazy whip. It dove into the grove of grass and slithered into the hole.

Minutes later, it emerged in a dark, dank chamber. Water dripped from the ceiling, streaking the walls with sickly colors. Puddles that had not but disturbed in years littered the floor. The only light was a faint glow coming from a painting that was fixed to one of the walls.

The thin, translucent snake gazed at the painting for a moment before rearing up and slipping into the painting, becoming part of the scene of a beautiful mother serpent guarding a seemingly infinite amount of pale, white eggs. The snake winded around one of the eggs before fading away.

After a long moment of silence, a _splat!_ and a faint splash resounded about the chamber as a snake's egg fell out of the painting and into a puddle.

qpqpqp

Harry nervously rubbed his fingers over the sheets as he sat stiffly on his hospital cot, listening to the approaching set of footsteps. Snape, out of the infirmary the morning after Harry had heard him talk in his sleep, had seemingly completely recovered and was current roaring at the nurse.

"I will teach the boy as I see fit!" the potions master shouted as the door at the end of the wing flung open.

Harry cringed, sharply reminded of Vernon. Snape sounded murderous.

"Harry is in a very delicate condition, Severus," the nurse pleaded, not sounding quite so commanding after forgetting to give the potions master some dreamless sleep potion two nights earlier. Apparently she hadn't forgiven herself yet. "Please, don't hurt him anymore than he already is!"

"I cannot teach the brat with you as a distraction!" Snape snarled furiously.

The nurse seemed to be getting some of her ire back. "Very well then," she snapped. "But _if_ you hurt him again in the _slightest_, I'll take this up with the headmaster myself." With an indignant rustle of skirts, she was leaving. "Merlin knows why Albus chose you to teach the poor boy," she grumbled before the door slammed close.

_Actually, he didn't_, Harry thought resignedly, sitting very still as Snape's sharp footsteps resounded again. _I did_.

The morning after he'd heard Snape talk in his sleep, he had let Dumbledore know of his decision. He was glad the headmaster didn't ask why. The nurse had been quite miffed at the idea, but had relented at the headmaster's insistence. Harry found it rather amusing that the mediwitch continually grumbled about Albus's poor judgment when he himself had made the choice…

_The poor judgment part is probably true_, Harry thought, a bit grimly. He still didn't know why, exactly, he had chosen Snape to teach him the ways of the blind. In fact, he tried not to think of it—or anything at all. Life was much easier when it revolved around carefully walking around in circles after ingesting potions, falling into bed exhausted, and repeating the process over again.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" Snape murmured in a malicious voice that reminded Harry of a cat eyeing a mouse in a cage. The voice changed into a bark and Harry flinched. "Get up, boy! I want to see how pathetic the Boy-Who-Lived can pretend to be."

_Poor judgment indeed_, Harry thought with surprising bitterness. Already he was feeling the burning flames of irritation and resentment. Biting back any retort, he straightened himself coldly and got to his feet.

"Well?" Harry heard a sharp rapping sound from somewhere ahead of him. "Follow the sound, you dolt!"

_I should have chosen the St. Mungo's specialist_, Harry thought acidly as he inched forward stiffly, hands spread in front of him and hunched forward…

A whoosh of robes and a single, sharp tap. "Over _here_, boy." Harry gritted his teeth. "Pitiful." The voice took on a mocking edge. "Is that the best our _glorious_ savior can do? A measly first year would have no trouble pushing you over and trampling you, much less those Death-Eaters you insist on haring after…"

Harry swiveled angrily and changed directions, nearly stumbling as he stalked forward and hit a bed—

Tap-tap. "_This_ way, Potter." The mocking edge sharpened. "Pathetic. Is it _really_ that hard?"

_Shut up!_ Harry snarled in his head, but he didn't make a sound, he couldn't, he was all too used to holding the screams inside… Stumbling, he changed directions again, biting his lip and struggling to keep his face blank and cold, dimly aware that he was trembling…

The swift sound of rustling cloths. A ringing _tap!_ "This way, you idiot! If I am to be lassoed with you, an incompetent, foolhardy Gryffindor, I expect you to at least exert some modicum of effort!"

_Shut up, shut up_…

_Tap!_ The voice was now a taunting sneer. "Or is all effort simply beneath you?"

_Damn it, SHUT UP!_ Harry stumbled and nearly fell as his toe stubbed something in front of him. _Why did I choose Snape? why, why_…

_Tap-tap-tap!_ "This way, Potter," Snape drawled. He snorted when Harry stubbed his other toe. "I didn't think even a blockheaded, incompetent, hotheaded and self-centered teenager like you could be _that_ clumsy."

Harry grasped a handful of sheets from the bed he had stumbled into. He wanted to smash Snape's ugly nose, but another part of him was too scared—too scarred by memories of the merciless belt and hands that Snape's malicious voice brought back. That same part wanted nothing more than to curl in a ball and escape into the numbness and darkness while clutching his mother's letter, which felt so far away…

"Even the spectacularly abysmal Longbottom has more grace than you, Potter!"

_I'm such a fool for thinking anything but this would happen_, he thought coldly, straightening himself. _Why am I letting him get under my skin? I hate him. I hate him_…

"…would it really be too much to apply yourself? Go ahead, Potter. It's fine with me if you deem yourself above making an attempt. After all, _I_ didn't lose my precious godfather because I was simply too good to exert any effort…"

"_LEAVE SIRIUS OUT OF THIS!"_ Harry shouted, turning blindly to face Snape. He recoiled immediately afterwards, shivering and half expecting the fall of the belt, almost hearing it slashing through the air… He swallowed and let himself relax minutely when the stinging pain didn't come…

Instead, a hateful, spiteful, infuriatingly soft voice cut through his mind. "Hit a nerve, haven't I, _Potter_?"

He flinched: belt or not, Snape's words never felt anything less than a white-hot brand, or a glittering icicle. He felt his nails digging into his palm. His voice was shaking. "What do you want of me, _Snape_?"

"Insolence, Potter! It's _Professor_ Snape, boy, and you can be assured that your wretched House will lose points once the term—"

"What are you trying to do?" he demanded and then swallowed hard, desperately curbing back some of his anger, trying to drive away all phantom memories of the belt, the hands. "What do you _want_?"

"I'm trying to teach you mobility, Potter," Snape drawled, sounding drolly amused. "I thought that even you would be able to understand _that_—"

"So you're saying that running around the room doing nothing but insult me is going to help?"

Snape growled. "I will not tolerate such insolence, Potter!"

Harry flinched but quickly recovered and batted away the memory of the belt. "_I _am not trying to make things difficult!" he snapped. "_I'm_ trying to follow Professor Dumbledore's advice and set aside our differences and be productive—I'm _not_ trying to antagonize you!"

"_Touching_ sentiments, Potter," Snape sneered. "Now—"

"I _know_ you don't like this," Harry continued doggedly, having gotten his temper in check at last, "and I know Professor Dumbledore didn't give you much of a choice—"

"_Don't_ like?" Snape gave a bark of laughter. Harry flinched at the sound. "_Don't _like? Not _much_ of a choice?" Snape laughed again, and Harry resumed gritting his teeth. "I assure you, Potter—as much as _you_ 'don't like' this, and as much as _you_ feel you had no choice—"

"Actually, professor," Harry interrupted, suddenly feeling quite calm, "I did have a choice, a choice between a St. Mungo's specialist and you. And no, Professor Dumbledore didn't influence my decision at all. It was my own."

A long silence ensued. Harry felt a trickling of dread. "And so… you chose me." The voice was quivering with fury. "A worthy prank indeed, Potter, a worthy prank—"

"_Prank?_ I—_prank?"_ Harry sputtered. "This is no prank! This—" Harry laughed suddenly, a hoarse, despairing sound, and realized dimly that it sounded like the laugh Snape had uttered only moments ago. "Professor, I have never played a prank before, and I'm not about to start playing one when I'm choosing whom to trust my future with! I'm—I'm blind. I wouldn't prank about this." He paused, fatigue and a shadow of fear overcoming him. "Nobody would prank about this…"

The same bored, unaffected tone. "Very entertaining, Potter… Now—"

_Entertain_— Harry wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. Dimly he wondered why he was getting so frustrated over this stupid, stubborn, hateful old _bastard_, but he was furious and hurt and frustrated all the same, and he wasn't going to let it go, not now, no. The memories of belt and hands leered at the edge of his mind, but a strange need to get through to this infuriating man kept them firmly at bay.

"What do you want? What do you want from me?" He forced himself to continue, noting that his voice was strangled and shaking. "I'm sick and tired of fighting. If you want an apology, have it then, I apologize for—for whatever you think I should be apologizing for. Living, maybe, but I never had a choice there." He paused for a brief moment, but went on. "If you must know, I never told anyone what I saw in your Pensieve—I know this is probably worth nothing to you, but I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy—and I'd _never_ have laughed—I know, I know how it feels, how it feels to be—be bullied like that, and it should make you happy to know that I had a fallout with Sirius because of it." _You're just giving him more ammunition, Potter_, he told himself wearily, bitterly, and he let his shoulders drop and his head fall forward. He sighed. "Just… forget it then." He swallowed. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anyhow."

The silence stretched on. A sharp tap from somewhere ahead accompanied by a cold, detached voice. "You're right, Potter. It doesn't matter anyhow." More silence. Harry felt curiously numb. "Now get up and move towards the sound."

Anger flared suddenly and Harry wanted nothing more than to storm up to the potions master and smash that nose and then stalk out of the hospital wing, but he bit his lips hard and suppressed the urge, letting numbness seep in again. Very aware of the stinging at the back of his eyes, he got up and made himself move towards the sound. He felt like he was sleepwalking. A little voice in his mind was ranting furiously, berating him for acting like such a bloody stupid fool—of _course_ this was bound to happen, how could he be such an _idiot_? how could he have expected anything else? it was _Snape_, after all—

But the voice was muffled by an overwhelming numbness. Harry readily identified it as the kind of numbness that wore off after a while and got replaced by rage and tears (if he could have shed any).

"Pay attention, Potter," Snape snapped. "This way."

Harry wanted to lash out and snarl, but he stilled as he noticed something. The man's voice was different: though sharp, it was flat and held no cruelty, not particular malice… _Stop dreaming, Potter_, he snapped at himself and pushed all those stupid sentiments out of his head.

"Feel with your feet _and_ your hands, Potter!" The voice was harsh, but Harry couldn't help but pay more attention to its tone than the words, and he fancied that the annoyance was a bit… curbed at the end.

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered cautiously, maneuvering around a bed and getting closer to his goal. He took a few steps forward, sensing nothing, and froze, suddenly felt lost in nothingness.

"Well? Remember to keep your equilibrium." _Tap_. "Most sounds will not be this obvious. You will have to learn to be subtle, Potter."

Harry nodded, though inwardly he was getting more and more confused. Why was Snape's voice lacking that biting hate or sharp malice? _Probably got sick of your stupidity_, he sneered at himself, though he didn't know what he felt under his numbness.

"For now, you will have to practice moving without murdering yourself, Potter. Though Madam Pomfrey has given you potions that will prevent muscle damage and promote muscle development, you will have to exercise constantly."

Harry nodded again, coolly this time. Snape didn't sound cold or annoyed or spiteful. He just sounded aloof. The Gryffindor part of him was desperate to toss away all pretenses and demand an explanation, but another side of him, one that did not suffer as much in that month of torture, whispered to him to wait. _After all, one stupid outburst is enough for today_, he growled decidedly.

There was a faint pop, and then a whirring before silence. Footsteps and the stirring of a cloak, and Harry tensed involuntarily as Snape moved towards him. "Hold out your hand, boy." Harry did and felt something that felt and weighed like an apple drop into the palm of his hand. "This is a Sounding Globe. It will make various sounds and move around the room at random. You will listen to the sounds and try to obtain it."

Harry nodded yet again, fingering the globe in his hand.

"Well?" Snape sounded impatient. "Stop standing there. Activate it with your wand."

"I don't have my wand," Harry replied in the same tone the other man used: clipped, a bit harsh, but devoid of malice. "It was… broken. And burned."

"I see." A pause. Then the rustling of cloth, and Harry heard a tapping sound. The sphere in his hand shivered a bit before rolling off and made a sound similar to a child's pattering footsteps. "I've activated it for you. What are you waiting for, Potter?"

_Stupid little ball_, Harry thought exhaustedly an hour later as he maneuvered around one of the chairs Snape had conjured and scattered throughout the wing. He felt rather stupid at first, grouping around of the elusive ball while Snape watched. He was expecting his movements to be accompanied by a scathing commentary, but none came.

He wondered why no said commentary came, but he tried to keep his mind focused on getting the ball. _Easier said than done_, he thought peevishly. He wished he weren't blind so that he could see the potions master's expression, wish he weren't such a coward and would just drop pretenses and demand an answer from Snape…

Harry heard the swift rustling of a cloak and the patter of footsteps. He tensed only slightly when the potions master neared him and plucked the Sounding Globe out of his hands.

"I believe you have practiced enough for today, Potter. Despite what you may think, you certainly are not fully healed. See that you eat proper meals and sleep long hours."

"Yes, Professor," Harry intoned, mimicking the professor's short, expressionless voice. _Finally, it's over_, he thought, ready to keel over and go to sleep.

"Oh, and Potter?"

Harry looked up. "Sir?"

Snape's voice was stiff and formal. "I… accept your apology."

Harry blinked. And blinked again. _That's_… _interesting_. A pleasant feeling beneath the numbness and fatigue began to bubble up in him, but he scowled it away. Honestly, after five years of trying to make his life hell, _he_ was glad Snape had accepted _his_ apology?

But Snape was speaking again, in the same voice except that he sounded slightly choked. "And I, in turn, would like to extend an apology of my own, regarding our previous… misunderstandings."

Harry shut his mouth after realizing, five seconds later, that his jaw had dropped. _He's apologizing to me_, Harry thought dazedly. _Snape apologized to me, his bane of existence_… He hastily suppressed a smile that threatened to split his face in half.

"Apology accepted, sir."

"I expect you to exert yourself fully in what I teach you," Snape said sharply immediately afterwards, but Harry didn't flinch at all. "Be assured that—this is only to make our working interaction more bearable! I will return sometime later today, and I expect to find you well occupied."

With that and a swish, Severus Snape stalked out of the hospital wing, leaving a grinning Harry Potter behind. 


	7. Passage of Time

_A/N: Special mention goes to Procyon, who read this in an internet cafe in China.  
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**Chapter 7: Passage of Time**

Severus Snape was not a nice man. He played no tricks with himself; he made no excuses. He knew he was mean. Albus told him that he was too proud, and Minerva called him petty, but when it came to those damned Potters, he was sure his actions were eminently justifiable.

Until now. Because, unfortunately, Severus Snape also had a conscience.

_"Why do you insist on treating him so badly?" Pomfrey demanded. "I don't understand you. What JAMES Potter did to you is definitely wrong, but this is HARRY Potter. Do I judge _you_ by _your _father?" _

_He sneered at her and continued to stir his cauldron. Stupid woman, barging in while he was making a difficult potion. "Potter is an arrogant, reckless, self-centered adolescent. He needs someone to keep his status as Albus's Golden Boy and the Boy-Who-Lived from inflating his ego more than it already does." _

_Pomfrey looked ready to kill. "Arrogant? Inflating his ego? I've never heard anything further from the truth! Reckless I'll give you readily, and he seems self-centered because he hardly trusts to take his matters to others, but that's because he had nobody to trust! You saw what his _relatives_"—she spat out the word—"did to him." _

_He finished stirring and turned to level her with his coldest glare. "Nevertheless, the Dark Lord will not suddenly show mercy because his little obsession has just been raped." _

_The nurse took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. "I'd Banish you again if it weren't for the fear of You-Know-Who sending you back here a bleeding wreck. But you know as well as I do that you're only mad at the boy because he's proven you totally wrong, and you're too proud to accept it." _

_"Really?" _

_"Really," she snapped, eyes blazing. "The way you're behaving, the way you're belittling him and tormenting him and using him as an outlet for your anger, is NO BETTER than what you're convinced James Potter was like, and it's just as bad as what _your_ father did."_

_With that, she turned around swiftly and marched off_.

Severus Snape growled at the memory.

He had spent the next hour furiously making Calming Draughts and comparing himself to James Potter and then to his own father, convincing himself that no, he was certainly _not_ like the two people he despised more than anything and anyone else on the earth (except perhaps for that blockheaded minister and that mangy cur, Black). _He_ had never, say, humiliated the Potter brat in front of the entire class… or did anything physical, such as grab the brat or throw jars of cockroaches at him… of course not…

He had then switched tracks and spent another hour convincing himself that his actions towards that Potter brat were totally justified, that yes, Potter was spoil—er, perhaps not spoiled, but arrogant, certainly, and self-centered, and reckless, and foolish, and lazy, and cruel, and so on.

It had been one of the most frustrating afternoons of his entire life.

But the frustration ended with blessed ease when Albus Dumbledore summoned him to his office and told him with twinkling eyes that he was to teach the Potter brat the ways of the blind.

He had flown into a rage. This summer, for which he had packed with plans, was now down the drain, all because Dumbledore felt sorry for his Golden Boy. To top it off, Dumbledore had then proceeded to try to pry out why he had made a grab for the Order pendant he had seen in the brat's hand.

Unsurprisingly, he had had a very difficult time sleeping. The firewhisky he'd consumed had eased his insomnia but given him a bloody headache when he woke up the next morning.

To make matters even worse, he was summoned to _another_ meeting before his cup of coffee (and hangover cure)—just to watch Nott get tortured some more because Avery had sighted Muggles that might have been bloody Potter's bloody relatives in bloody France; and after that, _he_ had to suffer the Cruciatus for half a minute because he could worm no information out of Dumbledore regarding the Potter brat's blasted relatives. Albus didn't know, anyhow—the only person who might have had a slight clue was that werewolf, whom Albus had assigned to go search for the—Dursleys, was it? Bloody Muggles—bloody _Potter_.

And then he had to give the brat "lessons."

"…_would it really be too much to apply yourself? Go ahead, Potter. It's fine with me if you deem yourself above making an attempt. After all, I didn't lose my precious godfather because I was simply too good to exert any effort_…"

_"Leave Sirius out of this!" the boy shouted, turning to face him blindly. He noticed the boy recoiling immediately afterwards, but he made no note of it: his mind was still clouded by anger and frustration, the headache from his hangover, the lack of coffee, and the Dark Lord's good morning gift of Crucio. _

_"Hit a nerve, haven't I, Potter?" _

_The boy flinched again. _Jumpy little brat_, he sneered in his mind. _

_"What do you want of me, Snape?" The boy's voice was shaking. _

_"Insolence, Potter!" Snape snarled triumphantly. "It's Professor Snape, boy, and you can be assured that your wretched House will lose points once the term—" _

_"What are you trying to do?" the boy shouted, then continued in a much smaller voice, "What do you want?" _

_"I'm trying to teach you mobility, Potter," Snape drawled. _Stupid brat_. "I thought that even you would be able to understand that—" _

_"So you're saying that running around the room doing nothing but insult me is going to help, is it?" _

_He growled. "I will not tolerate such insolence, Potter!" _

_Yet again the boy flinched, and this time it caught his attention too much to be shoved aside. He frowned and then realized what it meant. The abrupt flinching, the legs clamping together tightly, the fear that flickered on the face_… _The boy had been heavily abused. _

_The thought struck him like a hammer._ _He knew it all along, of course, and he'd even seen it, but only now did the full implications suddenly sink in, reaching his conscious mind through clouds of anger and frustration and denial. With the realization brought the sudden, dreaded emotion: guilt. _

_He shook sharply his head to clear his mind of the ridiculous idea of guilt. Where the dratted Potter boy was concerned, there was nothing for him to be guilty about! No, nothing at all. _

_"I am not trying to make things difficult! I'm trying to follow Professor Dumbledore's advice and set aside our differences and be productive—I'm not trying to antagonize you!" _

_"Touching sentiments, Potter," he sneered at the end of the boy's tirade. "Now—" _

_"I know you don't like this," Potter continued doggedly, "and I know you probably didn't have much of a choice—" _

_"Don't like?" He gave a bark of laughter at the gross understatement and noticed that Potter flinched yet again. "Don't like? Not much of a choice?" He laughed a second time. "I assure you, Potter—as much as you 'don't like' this, and as much as you feel _you_ had no choice—" _

_"Actually, professor," Potter interrupted in a suddenly cool tone, "I did have a choice, a choice between a St. Mungo's specialist and you. And no, Professor Dumbledore didn't influence my decision at all. It was my own." _

He chose me_. The thought whirled in his head and instantly his mind clicked: a prank, a prank to ridicule him, like father like son_… _He felt anger flaring up again. "And so_…_ you chose me. A worthy prank indeed, Potter, a worthy prank—" _

_"Prank? I—prank? This is no prank! This—" _

_Snape was startled by the desperation in the voice and even more startled by the laugh that followed. It sounded eerily familiar. _

_"God knows why I chose you of all people. Have you ever caught me playing a prank in all my years at Hogwarts? I've never played a prank before, and I'm not about to start playing one when I'm choosing whom to trust my future with! I'm—I'm blind. I wouldn't prank about this." He paused and looked suddenly very tired. "Nobody would prank about this_…

_Snape felt another pang of guilt, too strong to be ignored, but he said in a bored, unaffected tone, "Very entertaining, Potter_…_ Now—" _

_"What do you want?" _

_There was an aching weariness in the boy's voice that rendered him speechless. _

_"What do you want from me? I'm sick and tired of fighting with you. If you want an apology, have it then, I apologize for—for whatever you think I should be apologizing for. Living, maybe, but I never had a choice there." The boy paused, and then continued, slowly, deliberately. "If you must know, I never told anyone what I saw in your Pensieve"—Snape felt a flare of old anger, but the boy went on quickly—"I know this is probably worth nothing to you, but I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy. And I'd never have laugh—I know, I know how it feels, how it feels to be—be bullied like that, and it should make you happy to know that I had a fallout with Sirius because of it." _

_Snape stared at the boy, not knowing what to say or do. Part of him still wanted to strangle the boy for having gone into his Pensieve, for being the son of that arrogant bastard, James Potter, but another part, the part that had compelled him to return to Dumbledore, felt shaken and_…

_The boy sighed. "Just… forget it then." He watched the boy's pale, still-mottled throat move in a swallowing motion. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anyhow." _

_The silence stretched on. The words echoed in his mind, and with a jolt, Snape realized that he was feeling guilty and ashamed and dismayed at what he'd said and done to this boy, this boy who had been beaten, hated, blinded, and raped. He swallowed, not knowing what to do with these strange feelings, and, acting automatically, he made the sharp tapping sound with his wand again. "You're right, Potter. It doesn't matter anyhow." A pause, and then he continued before guilt could attack and make him say something foolish. "Now get up and move towards the sound." _

_The boy got up like a sleepwalker, face expressionless and pale. _

_"Pay attention, Potter," Snape snapped, feeling uncomfortable at seeing how tired and defeated the boy looked. "This way." _

_He watched the boy move around like someone under the Imperius. The guilt that gnawed him did not lessen. "Feel with your feet and your hands, Potter!" he ordered, but curbed his voice at the end. _

_"Yes, sir." The boy took a few steps, then stopped, the face changing subtly to a slight frown of confusion. _Strange_, Snape reflected, _that the face that only a few months ago clearly showed each and every emotion is suddenly so… un-Potter-ish.

_"Well?" He demanded when Potter remained unmoving. Tap! "Most sounds will not be this obvious. You will have to learn to be subtle, Potter." _

_The boy nodded. _

_"For now, you will have to practice moving without murdering yourself, Potter. Though Madam Pomfrey has given you my potions that will prevent muscle damage and promote muscle development, you will have to exercise constantly." _

_Another nod. _

_Snape felt a flare of frustration. A mad, raging Potter he could handle with ease; a self-pitying, gloomy Potter was a piece of cake—but this? Silent, expressionless, forcing him to see things a different way, doing nothing to ease his guilt_.

_He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and summoned the Sounding Globe. "Hold you your hand, boy. This is a Sounding Globe. It will make intermittently make various sounds and move around the room at random. You will listen to the sounds and try to obtain it." _

_Potter nodded. _

_"Well? Stop standing there. Activate it with your wand." _

_"I don't have my wand," the boy replied, and Snape realized that it was perfectly emotionless, only slightly clipped and annoyed—just like his own. "It was_…_ broken. And burned." _

_"I see." Snape comprehended this new information, which he already knew but, like his sentiments of guilt and shame and dismay, had just sunken in. He tapped the globe with his wand. "I've activated it for you. What are you waiting for, Potter?" _

_Over the next hour or so, he watched the boy hunch, stalk, stumble, and crawl after the sounding globe. He had felt, initially, an urge to skewer the boy with scathing insults, but the urge had quickly died. He had also expected the boy to complain or purse his lips and smolder with indignant anger or self-pity, but the boy just looked tired and determined. _

_Poppy Pomfrey's words came back to him, and he tried with all the expertise he had with Occlumency to clear his mind of those thoughts. They remained. What she said was right: he'd been doing nothing but torment and belittle a boy who had been neglected, starved, beaten, raped, hated, whose childhood had been worse—much worse—than his. Snape knew hate, he knew about being beaten, but starvation and utter neglect and rape— _

_He scowled angrily. _This is the Potter brat_, he snarled at himself, and the hatred that would always flare so satisfactorily remained dead and cold. _

_Finally, when Potter looked ready to collapse, he strode forth and plucked the globe from the boy's hands. _

_"I believe you have practiced enough for today, Potter. Despite what you may think, you certainly are not fully healed. See that you eat proper meals and sleep long hours." _

_"Yes, Professor." _

_He banished the Sounding Globe and paused. He felt a careening moment of hesitation, but it passed with another glance at the boy's pale face. "Oh, and Potter?" _

_Harry looked up. "Sir?" _

_He had to work hard to bring the words to his lips. "I accept your apology," he said at last. He watched the boy's face light up briefly before sinking into a scowl. Before he knew what he was doing, he was speaking again. "And I, in turn, would like to extend an apology of my own regarding our previous… misunderstandings." _

_He swallowed, and for the first time felt apprehension._ I can't believe I just said that…_ he thought and felt strangely deflated when he noticed that Potter's jaw had dropped open, and those lifeless green eyes were staring at him quite blankly. _

_Then, the eyes and mouth closed, and a genuine smile flashed behind the mask. "Apology accepted, sir." _

The brat seems far too pleased_, Snape thought peevishly, though he didn't feel a bit peeved. In fact, if he were truthful with himself, he felt_… _He turned from that line of thought just in time. "I expect you to exert yourself fully in what I teach you," he snarled. He noticed that Potter didn't flinch at all. A strange feeling awoke inside of him. "Be assured that the apology is only to make our working interaction more bearable." He glanced around to make sure the nurse hadn't heard him and continued in a sharp voice. "I will return sometime later today." _

_With that, he turned and stalked out of the hall, feeling more light-hearted than he had felt in a very long time_…

Snape shook his head sharply and glared at the potion he was currently making. The Potter brat was still that: the Potter brat, and Snape still had a bone to pick with James Potter's son.

He was sure he had seen Remus Lupin hand the boy an Order pendant—and not anybody's Order pendant, but _his_ pendant—his _old_ Order pendant. The one he had given _her_ that horrible night seventeen years ago…

qpqpqp

_Today isss the day, Nagini_._ This isss the hour_.

_Yesss, my Lord. I am ready. _

_Let usss begin then. _

The boy, tied to the chair of stone, fidgeted nervously. The tall, pale man with burning red eyes smiled and moved to the boy. In one swift movement, their mouths met, and the boy made a high, keening sound that echoed and echoed in the room, and, after it died, left an acrid aftertaste of shock and pain and terror.

The boy's eyes blinked. Then red filtered into them, spreading like a bloody stain over the whites, the blue irises, the black pupils.

_My Lord? _

_Yesss, my pet_…

The tall man with red eyes slithered up from where he had collapsed. He laid his head lovingly in the boy's lap.

_My Lord_…

_Take care of my shell, Nagini_.

_I will, my Lord_…

_Keep your mind open for me in case I must retreat_.

_I will, my Lord, my Massster_…

The boy cast a glance at the form coiled in a corner of the room. The snake's eyes were dull and blank, though a dim fire of light burned deep inside.

The man ran a hand over the boy's chest.

_Do not worry for me, Massster_.

_I know, Nagini. I have nothing to fear for you. _

A door opened. A man with features identical to the man draped over the boy's lap walked in. The newcomer kneeled and the boy stood, putting on hand on the newcomer's forehead.

_Ah, and what have we here?_

_One who will never betray you, Massster_.

_Yesss. They are foolss. They believe that he could not serve me without a ssoul_. The boy's lips curved into a smile. _Yet soulless he ssserves me best of all: he, my faithful doppelganger._

The boy's eyes lost their red hue and changed back into a dull blue. He moved with the newcomer to the doorway.

_The time hasss come for me to leave, for my plansss to be put in action. _

The man on the ground with half-lidded red eyes glided onto the stone chair in the middle of the room.

_I await your return, my Lord, my Massster_…

The door shut heavily.

qpqpqp

Remus Lupin hurried through the halls of Hogwarts. He had finally completed the mission Dumbledore had assigned him: to track down the Dursleys and to bring them to the Headquarters. Some of the things he'd found out had been—well—unexpected, and it had taken him longer than he'd expected. The term was due to begin _today_, in just a few hours, and he still wanted to see Harry, his best friend's son. He shook his head, remembering. Lily's son, but also Snape's son.

He hastened to the hospital wing, where he supposed the boy still was. The last time he'd seen Harry, he remembered the boy being no more than skin and bones. The spirit within the boy had not died—thank Merlin—but it had been battered and was no longer the same…

"Why, Remus, how nice to see you!" Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office with a tray of potions in her arms.

He turned and gave the mediwitch a fleeting smile. "Hello Poppy. Where's Harry?"

"Harry?" Something in the mediwitch's eyes flickered. "You'd best wait for him in the boy's dormitory up in Gryffindor tower."

Remus nodded, rather pleased that the boy was out of the hospital wing.

"He'll be there if he's done with his lessons with Severus."

The werewolf's jaw dropped. "Lessons? With—oh. Merlin." _What's Dumbledore thinking? Lessons? And Harry is so unwell! _

"It's not that bad," the mediwitch chuckled, arranging the vials of potions into a cabinet. "Severus is teaching Harry the ways of the blind, and the boy is coping remarkably well." A thoughtful look passed over her face. "You know, Remus, the two of them are actually so similar… I'm surprised I haven't noticed before…"

The werewolf swallowed nervously. "Er—yes. I'll just be leaving now, then?"

The mediwitch smiled. "Off you go then…"

He hurried up to where the remembered the Gryffindor tower was. He hoped Harry was there, yet dreaded seeing the boy all the same. What was Dumbledore thinking? Putting Harry and Snape together—one of whom was still recovering from—from all that had happened, and one of whom was the Renowned Git—Merlin. He just hoped Harry was all right…

He stepped past the portrait of the Fat Lady (who was chatting animatedly with her friend Violet and swung herself open absentmindedly at the password, _tea_) and jogged up the stairs to the door of the seventh year boys. He hesitantly knocked it. "Harry?" He waited a moment before knocking again. "Harry, are you in there?"

A voice floated out. "Remus?"

"Harry! Can I come in?"

"Of course." The werewolf waited a few moments, and then the door slowly swung open.

Remus blinked: even with his heightened sense of sight, the dormitory room was nothing more than inky darkness with a vague shape here and there and a dim red expanse that must've been the thick curtains. But in front of him was Harry, clear in the low orange light from a torch in the corridor outside the shadowy room.

_By Merlin, he's changed_, the werewolf thought. The cheekbones were sharp and the jaw anything but boyish, but the thin lips held a more lively quality (_form Lily_, he thought), and the eyebrows, expressive and dark, were a mixture of both of them. And the nose, though not quite as large as Severus's, couldn't have come from anyone else. Without the brilliant green eyes, the face could belong to nobody but Severus's son.

The boy stepped back with an ease that startled the werewolf. "Come in," Harry said, turning to the side to let his visitor in.

The werewolf blinked once or twice and moved past the boy, making sure not to make any contact. The boy moved past him, carefully not touching, and disappeared into one of the shadows.

"Haven't been here in a long time," Remus murmured, though all he saw was darkness. He didn't even consider asking for light. It would be—cruel, and Harry, this Harry, was… different from what he had remembered, expected.

"Oh, I forgot," Harry muttered, as though having figured something out. "You'll want light, won't you?"

"Er—yes," the werewolf mumbled, rather relieved to not have to broach the subject. "Please."

The boy moved with silent grace to the curtains and drew them open slowly. _He moves like his father_, Remus thought as the boy put a hand to the window, pushing it open a crack. The sun was high overhead and a clean little breeze slipped into the dorm.

_He's also neat, like his mother_, the werewolf noted, looking around. The beds he remembered, all of them neat and untouched except for one (that looked barely touched). There was nothing on the floor. A black cane leaned against one of the beds. He didn't notice the little ball that hovered on the other side of Harry's bed. _He's too neat_, Remus thought. _Perhaps it's because he has nothing at all to make a mess out of_…

"So Harry," Remus said, seating himself on one of the beds. "How are you? Is everything going all right with Professor Snape?"

The boy's face remained impassive, if pleasant. "Perfectly fine, Remus."

qpqpqp

"_Stupefy!"_

Harry felt the spell leave his wand and heard, a moment later, the sound of the Sounding Globe thudding on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor seventh year boy's dormitory.

Harry grinned and bent down, plucking the globe off the ground and tapping it with his new wand—holly, eleven inches, another one of Fawkes's feathers.

The globe made a sulky kind of sound before slinking off. Harry chuckled and sank back in his chair.

Over the past week or so, he'd become rather… fond of the Sounding Globe. In fact, it reminded him of a milder version of Snape. His mind went back to the third "lesson" he'd had with the potions master, when he'd been first introduced to this new usage of the Sounding Globe as a stalker of types…

_"I see that the muscle restorative potions has helped you recover some of that famed seeker grace," Snape sneered after Harry successfully managed to grab the Sounding Globe, which had been floating under one of the hospital cots. _

_Harry just held out the globe, waiting a bit apprehensively. He couldn't tell if Snape was in a bad mood and preparing to maim him with his words or was just being Snape, but when the globe was plucked out of his hands without another barb or insult, Harry breathed a small sigh of relief. _

_Between the first lesson with the unexpected apology and the second lesson, Harry had alternately floated in a daze of bewildered happiness and fretted in bouts of trepidation, wondering: what now? Their second meeting had been stiff, and Snape's snide, cutting remarks had remained unchanged, but Harry had the lurking feeling that the malice Snape projected was more for show or out of habit than in sincerity, but then that little feeling might simply have been his wishful thinking. _

_Snape had been right about the effectiveness of his potions. Of course, there were times that Harry felt as though he were nothing but a walking bag full of those simmering potions, but he was able to walk around and breathe in deeply without keeling over from exhaustion or dizziness. It surprised him pleasantly. His hearing, too, had improved, as had his sense of smell and touch. _

_Part of his success at hunting down the globe, Harry knew, lay not only in his improved physical condition, but in repeated practice. Snape had left him the Sounding Globe when he had left, and whenever Harry's mind slipped into the dangerous direction of brooding, he'd take out the globe, stumble over to Madam Pomfrey so that she could activate it, and spend the next hours either hunting for the elusive sphere or simply listening to the noises it made. It amused him that, in the end, the globe would always dwindle down to making the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and simmering draughts: a byproduct of staying too long with Snape, Harry supposed. _

_"Potter! Are you paying attention?" _

_Harry nodded, a bit guiltily, flinching only slightly. _

_"As I'm sure you're aware, Potter, you are currently the most wanted person in Britain," Snape lectured, "and by a force much more menacing than the Ministry." Harry listened to the sharp tap of Snape's shoes as he paced the infirmary floor. "There will be those who will try to exploit your current state and attack you on unawares. Tell me, Potter, without your sense of sight, how will you detect your enemies?" _

_Harry frowned and composed his answer in his head before replying. "Hearing, and maybe smell." He thought back to how he had felt magic—in the potions coursing through his veins, or the Patronus charm, when he had been summoning power from the core pulsing inside him. "And_… _perhaps I can sense their magic, sir?" _

_"So you are not completely useless," Snape muttered, and Harry had a brief moment of blank surprise and unwonted joy: coming from Snape, it was actually quite a compliment. "I will activate the Sounding Globe, and it will imitate an enemy. It will attack you intermittently when you are unaware. It will be your task to detect its presence and attack magically it despite being blind." _

_Harry nodded. One thing he was grateful for was Snape's blunt reference to his being blind. It had struck him at first with bitter hardness, but now it rolled over him as easily as commenting that he had black hair or that he was rather pale. He was glad of it, for the delicate euphemisms and careful lack of reference to his blindness would only have made him hate himself all the more. _

_"How am I to magically attack it, sir, if I don't have my wand_…

_He barely finished when he felt something prodding his hand. He flinched and shifted away, heart speeding up. _

_"Take it," Snape snapped, but lacked the sharp edge. "It will not bite you, Potter." _

_Harry obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and grasped the stick_… _He felt a rush of familiarity and he lifted the wand in the air disbelievingly. "Professor_… _Is it—I—" _

_"Professor Dumbledore saw to it to have your wand replaced as soon as possible," Snape drawled. "Apparently, he thought that you might need it." _

_Harry nodded. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling oddly warmed by the fact that Snape had given him his new wand. _

_"Don't thank me," Snape snorted. "Thank the headmaster." _

_Dumbledore. Harry felt the old pang of betrayal and anger, but it was faded, like the rumble of distant thunder. Straying into his mind this time was an image of the old man—weary and tired and_… _old. With a tear sliding down his long, crooked nose and into his snowy beard_…

_Just then, he heard something approach like the shuffling of gentle footsteps. He stiffened before he felt a zap tickling his neck— _

_He gasped and scrambled away, nearly tumbling over and sprawling onto the floor. _

_"That, Potter," Snape said archly, "was the Sounding Globe. I warned you that it would attack you, just like the enemies will." _

_Harry continued rubbing the spot on his neck. It didn't hurt, but the suddenness of the touch and the intimacy of the region_… _It brought back the hands all over again. _

_"I don't see how I can keep part of my mind concentrated on detecting it if I'm to do anything else, sir," Harry muttered warily, half his mind spent on listening, sensing_…

_"It is a skill you will have to learn, Potter!" Snape barked and Harry gritted his teeth so as not to cringe. "It is not that difficult. With so many attempts on your life, I'm surprised you haven't learned it already." _

_Harry ignored the vibe, concentrating on detecting the presence of the Sounding Globe. _

_"In the meantime," Snape continued, "I will distract you. In real situations, you will not have your entire mind devoted to avoiding someone trying to kill you. It will need to be an instinctive response, much like how you would respond if felt something gold and fluttering next to your face_…

_A Snitch, Harry thought, longing overwhelming his heart, and he could almost see it again—darting to and fro, whirring just behind his fingertips_—

_He jumped and gasped again as something ran across his face. He felt the zap, this time on his throat. _

_"Potter!" _

_Harry cringed. There was no shred of nicety in Snape's voice, and the touch of the Sounding Globe across his face, and feeling something touch his neck_… _It brought back the hands: in the cell, clamming and leaving trails of numbed flame; Vernon's, smearing roughly, pushing the filth into his skin, into him_…

_"Even blind—especially blind—this should not be too difficult!" _

_"I'm sorry, sir," Harry whispered with difficulty, trying to steady himself. He swallowed, and shakily extended his senses again, his mind coherent enough to be slightly surprised and greatly relieved that Snape didn't make another caustic comment. _Another one and I'll probably become a shaking, sniveling wreck again… _he thought, hating himself for it. _I wonder—I wonder if it'll be like this with all the others—with Ron, and Hermione…_ He didn't know if he could bear it if everyone orbited him, circling timidly, leaving him to drown in the numbness_…

_A soft breathing sound behind him, and he reacted without thinking—he jerked, pulling his legs together and arms to his chest and one hand clenching his wand jabbing fiercely at the sound and hoarsely shouted the first spell that came to mind—_"Expelliarmus!

_A jolt of magic, and then a whirring sound. _Did I get it?_ Harry wondered, tensed and wand at ready. _

_"Not a completely hopeless attempt, Potter," Snape sighed, voice surprisingly lacking any spite or venom. "Your aim, however, is pitiful."_

Harry smiled to himself at the memory. To aim, he really only needed to remember not to panic and to listen to his instincts (which he felt were quite trustworthy despite Snape's sneers), so he had learned how to aim quite quickly. But not a minute after he'd managed his aim to Snape's satisfaction, the potions master had set the Globe off to attacking him at random intervals without respite while distracting him with comments that were impossible to ignore.

That lesson had been very difficult, and Snape had to bark at him continuously to keep his mind from gravitating to solely focusing on the globe. Between Snape's rising voice and the globe's sharp zaps, the hands began to creep into his mind, and in the end, he cringed even when Snape had told him in a remarkably soft voice that their lesson would be cut short. He had spent the rest of the day scrubbing himself raw in the healing spa.

But overall, Snape had been startlingly pleasant.

During each of the lessons—which went on for hours (did Snape really have nothing else to do? or was it just Dumbledore? Harry didn't think it likely that Snape would spend _that _much time with him on his own volition)—Snape had been surprisingly tolerant and, Harry admitted, long-suffering. He could often hear the impatience in the potions master's tone, and part of him never ceased to cringe, but the impatience rarely spilled into cruel snarls and jibes. At times, Harry almost found himself looking forward to the potion master's company. Though the Sounding Globe helped keep his mind off the past or the future, it wasn't precisely human company.

A year ago—a month ago—he would have said that Snape wasn't much of human company either, but it was different now. Perhaps it was because the potions master never allowed any awkward pauses to form when referring to Harry's blindness and fate as Voldemort's "most wanted;" perhaps it was because Snape could be—if you looked for it from the right perspective—dryly and wryly and darkly _humorous_; or perhaps it was because Harry knew Snape had faced darkness before, and suffered from it, and understood. Compassion without compassion, understanding with silence…

Or, perhaps, it was just the silent knowledge that Snape was his father. _Family_, a voice breathless with longing whispered inside him before he managed to shut it up. There was no point in hoping for hopeless things.

He heard a knock at the door.

"Harry?"

Harry frowned a moment as he attempted to recognize the voice. It wasn't Snape's, and it was a man's…

"Harry, are you in there?"

"Remus?"

"Harry! Can I come in?"

"Of course."

_What's Remus doing here?_ Harry wondered, but only briefly as he groped and found the Sounding Globe and swiftly deactivated it. _He can't have told, can he?_ he thought with a sudden burst of fear.

He opened the door. Remus was standing just in front of him, and Harry could feel the man, sense with vague familiarity the warmth and the faintly smell the somewhat wolfish scent. He stepped back. "Come in."

"Haven't been here in a long time," Remus murmured.

_He seems to be moving very hesitantly_, Harry thought before the answer came to him. "Oh, I forgot," he muttered. _Stupid Potter_. "You'll want light, won't you?"

"Er—yes. Please."

Harry moved to the curtains, feeling the warmth through the fabric. He drew them open, enjoying the sensation of sunlight falling over his face… He pushed open the window a crack and took in a deep breath of the fresh summer air that slipped in.

"So Harry," Remus said. Harry heard a rustling of cloth and then the sound of a mattress creaking slightly; the werewolf must've seated himself on a bed. "How are you? Is everything going all right with Professor Snape?"

_Ah. So someone told him about that_. "Perfectly fine, Remus." He thought back to those first few times he'd actually had a conversation with Snape that didn't consist entirely of barbs and half-hearted insults, and didn't involve him listening warily, ready to fling up his defenses.

_"But, professor, doesn't the effect of the fluxweed negate the leech juice?" _

_"Not if you dilute the fluxweed in monkshood extract. Tell me, again, Potter, what properties does the monkshood have?" _

_"Monkshood_… _It's an external painkiller, and magically dulls the effects of curses and hexes_—_oh, so those virtues of the fluxweed become negated by the monkshood, leaving behind its ability to dull positive spells, such as Cheering Charms." _

_"Correct. Now explain how the effects of adding mandrakes." _

_"Mandrakes by nature revert transfiguration, but some forms of transfiguration are bound by dull, positive spells that hinder the mandrake's effectiveness. So the"—a sound somewhere far off, several beds down, like muffled footsteps—his wand darted out and—_"Stupefy

_Harry, his wand still leveled in the direction of the sound, heard the Sounding Globe bounce off the cot and onto the ground with grim satisfaction. _

_"Much better," Snape said, sounding aloof and unimpressed. _

_Harry suppressed a grin. It wouldn't do to let Snape see him smiling. "About the mandrake's reactions with the fluxweed, sir_…

_They had slipped into a routine of sorts. While Harry awaited the Sounding Globe's attacks, Snape would distract him with, of all things, discussions about the rudiments of potion making. (It had been a last-ditch attempt on Harry's part to find some common ground, and he was surprised it had worked.) Harry found that, combined with his newfound patience and Snape's constant and much-appreciated attempts to curb his temper and hostility, their talks did not to sink into insults and barbs. It was—a very new sensation, holding a decent conversation about potions, and a decent conversation about potions with Snape, of all people. True, their conversation wasn't exactly amiable—it was academic at best—but_…_ It was not an unpleasant feeling. He savored it cautiously. _

_Before he could stop himself, he wondered, wistfully, if this was what it was like to converse with one's father_…

"We do fine, Remus," Harry replied.

There was a moment of silence. "Really," said the werewolf in a disbelieving tone.

Harry smiled faintly. He ran his fingers over the wall until he reached a bedpost, and, gripping it, sank onto a bed. "You seem to have some doubts."

"Well, considering your—er—opinions about your Occlumency lessons last year…"

"Last year was last year," Harry cut in. Last year, he thought, was a haze. It seemed to be from another era, another age, and yet it was so absurdly close. Was it only just a few months ago? "We managed to absolve some of our differences this time. He… we apologized."

"He did?" Remus sounded incredulous.

Harry's lips quirked into a smile. "Yes. Remember I told you how I went into his Pensieve? I apologized for that, as well as for being disrespectful to him at times, and he apologized for being… well, just being…"

"Snape."

Harry chuckled. "You can say it that way."

"Well. I'm glad. It's just a bit… surreal…"

Harry let his lips curve in a faint smile. "Don't worry, we still have our arguments and quarrels…"

_"Take it, Potter." _

_Harry felt something press into his hand. It was their sixth or seventh lesson, and after ruthlessly supervising Harry's practice with the Sounding Globe while discussing the finer aspects of potions (potions was actually pretty easy once he understood the basics of magical reactions), the potions master had unceremoniously stuck something into his hand. _

_Harry took it hesitantly, wondering what it was. It seemed to be a stick of sorts, though much larger than his wand, with a slightly knobby head that fit well into his grip if he held it pointing to the ground; it was not heavy, but it felt solid. And magical. _

_"What is it?" _

_"A cane, Potter," Snape replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. _

_"A—cane?" Oh. Well, of course—it was rather obvious, now that he thought of it. _

_Snape sighed. "Yes, Potter, a _cane_. You will be leaving the hospital wing today for your dormitory, where you will spend the rest of the summer." _

_"I—" Harry stopped and smiled, the muscles on his face stretching from the unfamiliarity of the expression. "Finally." _

_"Yes. Finally," Snape commented dryly. "Follow me, Potter. You still have to learn how to move around properly outside the confines of the hospital wing." _

_Harry followed. _

_A quarter an hour later, Snape was busy diffusing his impatience through heaving big sighs. Harry bore it as best he could. _

…_never lose your head, Potter, and I told you—feel with your feet _and _your cane _and _your arms!" _

_Harry clenched his jaw, berating himself for not being able to do something so simple. Though he managed easily to walk with the posture Snape had described, it was difficult to keep up with the pace Snape had set and not walk into a suit of armor, or freeze suddenly in the middle of the hall in blank confusion, or trip over his own feet. A part of him was peeved more at Snape than at himself, and last year, he knew he would be up in arms and sulking sullenly—last year, he wouldn't even be considering conversing with Snape, but now—it was all different. That part of him was small and insignificant. And Snape was his father. _

_"Here we are," Snape muttered, sounding as though he were eying something with distaste. Harry heard the Fat Lady gasp and whisper something to herself. "_Tea,_" Snape snarled. _

_Harry carefully followed Snape in the common room and up the stairs. Navigating was much easier here, and the air felt cozier than out in the halls. He let a small smile form on his face. _

_"This way," the potions master growled, voice filled with faint disgust. _He really doesn't like the Gryffindor tower_, Harry thought with some amusement. _

_They found the seventh year dorms, which were guarded by a password during the summer (tea, yet again), and Harry settled in with a melancholy smile. Though it felt a bit liberating to be free of his oversized clothes and robes and books (if he looked at it from the correct perspective), they were also his memories, his past, down to the dingiest of socks, and the loss of those little things, so unappreciated, suddenly hurt just as much as the overwhelming prospect of never being able to see. He was alone with nothing more than his hospital robes, his wand, and his cane_ _He moved his hand over the cane, down the side as Snape told him something about Dumbledore wanting him down for dinner, and felt an embossed 'S'_…

_"Professor?" Harry said hesitantly, when Snape had stopped talking. "Is this cane yours?" _

_A pause. "It _was_ my cane. I am letting you take possession of it." _

_"Oh." Snape (_my father_, he thought) had given him something: him, Harry Potter, and something that wasn't potions related or spiteful or despicable. He suddenly felt almost afraid to touch it. " Thank you." _

_"Think nothing of it, Potter," Snape said curtly, dismissively. "It is merely a forgotten relic that has been in my family for far too long." _

_Frowning, Harry extended his senses, pouring them into the cane. There was something about it—a feeling of importance, of ancient magic_…

_A strange feeling stirred in his chest. He had been given something from the Snape family: a gift from father to son._ Snape is my father_, Harry thought again, and then the notion—which had been at first detestable, miserable, then merely overwhelming, and finally bearing the barest hints of delicate hope—suddenly became frightening. It was like a bubble he didn't dare breathe on for fear of popping._

_He remembered his promise to Remus to tell._ Not now_, his mind shouted frantically, and the fear became realized: _what if he hates me again? He hated me, and perhaps maybe he does not hate me so much anymore, but he surely would once I tell him. And what could he want from me—a freak, a disgusting, blinded useless thing that a mass murderer wants to kill?

_"I couldn't accept it, sir, if it's a thing of value," Harry protested, forcing the words out from the knot in his throat. And it _was_ a thing of value—what he felt told him as much. _

_"I have no time squabbling with you, Potter," Snape growled. "This may once have been something of value, once, but it hardly is now. Take it." _

Tell him_, a little voice hissed, but he took no heed of it. _

_"But if it's an heirloom to—to your family, I couldn't accept it—for your children, your fami—" _

_"TAKE IT, POTTER!" _

_Harry cringed, blood pounding in his ears as Snape stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut with a frightening _bang_! Harry's mind darted like a terrified rat, sobbing through the dull ache behind his eyes—what did he say? what had he said wrong? He struggled to keep the hands at bay— _

_And then he felt the globe too late, felt its presence, and suddenly felt its zap tickling him too close to his neck— _

_He gasped and fell to the bed, shivering, still wondering helplessly what had he done, what had he said, why?_…

Harry's smile faded at the memory.

"Harry?"

Harry shook his head a bit. "Yeah?"

Remus's voice was hesitant. "You looked like you were thinking of something."

Harry swallowed and tilted his face away from the werewolf. "I was."

Snape was still Snape, and their… truce was shaky at best. But, to Harry's shock, Snape hadn't let it shatter. In fact, though Harry could never be sure, Snape seemed at times to express wordless apologies. Harry was equally sure that Snape would deny it if he was confronted with it. He stored these subtle acts in his head to analyze (in favor of brooding over his past and future). They made him wonder about the enigma that was Snape, about this man who was a mean, unfair git, who was brave and cunning and a masterful spy, who was his father…

He still remembered what happened after what he called the "cane" incident…

_Much later, after sitting on the bed for what could have been minutes to hours to days, Harry shuddered and decided that he wanted food slightly more than he wanted another vigorous bath. He hesitated a moment before he picked up the cane and made his way outside the dormitory. He was still shaky, and almost fell down the stairs when his left leg— the shorter one—gave out under him. _

_As he made his way down the stairs, he turned his thoughts resolutely away from all things Snape. A bitter laugh bubbled up in him. _Tell him? Tell him?

_He paused outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, and then moved down a bit when she began whispering. ("Look at him, Violet! Who _is _he_… "_The poor _dear_, he's—he seems to be—" "You don't _say_!") Where to? The Great Hall for dinner? He tapped his way to one of the windows and stuck out a hand. It was cool outside, nearing evening. _I must have spent more time in a daze than I thought_, he mused. _

_Deciding to head to the Great Hall and catch dinner, he summoned every memory of Hogwarts that he had, hoping he wouldn't get lost or meet Peeves, or anyone else for that matter. The thought of actually meeting people again made him want to flee back to the Gryffindor tower, but—that was ridiculous. He told himself firmly, or as firmly as he could manage, that he'd have to face people someday, and today was just as good as any other. He was quite surprised at the ease with which he found his way down the stairs and through the corridors to the Great Hall. It was almost as though the castle was gently guiding him, though perhaps it was just his fanciful thinking. _

_He could hear chattering already as he descended the stairs leading to the Hall. Hagrid's guffaw he readily identified, as well as Albus Dumbledore's amused tones; as he lingered in the entrance, he caught McGonagall's clipped voice asking for Professor Sprout to pass the salt. He didn't hear Snape, but then again, he doubted Snape talked much at meals, if the potions professor was indeed there_…

_And then, all at once, they hushed. Harry winced, the tapping of his cane suddenly thunderous to his ears. _They must've heard me_, he thought, his back stiffening even more. He fixed a vaguely pleasant expression on his face before reaching the bottommost step. _

_He paused a moment, then said quietly, "Good evening, Professors." _

_The hesitant murmur of replies washed over him. _All right, so perhaps coming down wasn't such a good idea after all_, he thought tensely. _Where to sit?

_He wavered where he stood, leaning towards moving to sit at Hagrid's end, when suddenly he heard the sound of chairs scraping and people getting to their feet— Footsteps approached, the rustle of robes, voices telling the poor dear to sit here— _

_He stiffened and took a step back— _

_"Don't touch him," snapped a voice. _

_Snape. _

_Harry froze, listening to someone's huff. Dimly, he was aware of Madam Pomfrey's voice muttering about how Harry really should not be out of bed at all, but he ignored it as he hesitated in a moment of balance. Then, from where Snape was sitting, he heard the sound of a chair being slid out. There was an uncertain lull in the babble. _

_He brushed his fingers over the chairs until he found the empty one Snape had pulled out, and he felt his way down to the cushioned seat before slipping into it. He was still remembering Snape's sudden, harsh yell in the dormitory and the quivering numbness that followed as he murmured, "Thank you, Professor." _

_"Eat, Potter," he muttered coldly. _

_Harry turned to his food, hand wandering over his plate, to the knives and forks and spoons_… Can't they just stop staring? _he wondered irritably. The tension was so thick he could feel it closing in on him like the confines of a coffin. Hands flitted back and forth at the edges of his senses. His own hands clenched around the silver cutlery, and he found that he was unable to raise them. _

_"Minerva, may I inquire as to what on Potter's plate interests you so much that you insist upon staring at it the way a starving alley cat would eye a bowl of milk?" Snape queried icily. _

_There was a rather shocked silence as the sound of clattering silverware abruptly faded. Harry suppressed a smile. Some of the tension lessened. Almost instinctively, he shifted towards Snape's voice, and he raised his fork and tentatively prodded at whatever was on his plate. _

_The Transfiguration professor sniffed. "Really, Severus, _must_ be you be so odiferous?" _

_Harry felt a flicker of warmth curling inside him as he carefully scooped a spoonful of what he found to be mashed potatoes into his mouth, making sure none fell over his robes (still hospital robes: Harry supposed that Dumbledore didn't take the liberty to buy him any new ones as nobody knew his size, not even he himself). The silence reigned again, broken only once by Dumbledore's cheerful comment on how delicious the pork was, but Harry ignored the edgy quiet. He spread out his senses, listening to the clink of silverware, hearing the sound of carefully muffled chewing. _I wonder what Snape is doing_, he thought_. Probably glaring at anyone who dares look his way, or my way… _The thought poised, delicate: his father, watching out for him_… Stop it, Potter_, he snapped, shaking his head minutely. _Don't be more of a pathetic idiot than you already are. _He remembered how Snape had abruptly shouted at him only a few hours ago, and he speared at something on his plate and lifted it to his mouth, but his appetite was suddenly gone. _

_"So, ah—Harry," Hagrid called, sounding rather nervous. Harry turned in the direction of the half-giant. "Ah—how're ye doin'? I mean—how—how're you—erm—getting along, being—being"—Hagrid sounded rather panicked now, and the clattering of silverware had utterly stilled—"ah—being—" _

_"Blind, you mean?" Snape suggested with the warmth of an icicle. _

_Harry couldn't help but smirk slightly, wincing only a little for Hagrid's plight. He heard someone choke while swallowing, obviously shocked at Snape's bold statement_… _And he became vaguely aware of something straying at the edge of his senses, a thing of familiar magic that made the sound of heavy breathing as it approached_…

_Hagrid sounded extremely flustered. "I—ah—wouldn't 'ave put it that way, but—er—" _

"Stupefy!

_Harry heard a shriek and the uniform clatter of silverware (though noticeably not Snape's), but he paid attention only to the sound of the Sounding Globe clattering down the steps. He listened to it roll across the Hall, and he reached out his cane into nothingness—then felt the ball smack into his cane and spiral away towards his legs. _

_A stunned silence followed. _

_"Your aim has improved, Potter," Snape commented coolly. _

_"Thank you, Professor," Harry said with equal coolness, though inside he was smiling like a demon. The memory of what had happened in the seventh year boy's dormitory and the numbness that followed receded even more. And, though he quickly tried to do away with the thought, he fancied that perhaps Snape, his father, was also smiling in secret_…

"I suppose the headmaster is quite pleased that the two of you have set aside your differences?"

"Actually, I haven't seen Professor Dumbledore at all lately," Harry replied, grateful that Remus had changed the subject. "I'd have thought he'd take this opportunity to see me a bit more and try to ask me about what had happened…"

An uncomfortable silence drifted down.

"Well—I'm glad that you and Severus have learned to not attempt to strangle each other, at least," Remus said as lightly as he could. "As long as you two don't blow up on each other like you did last year…"

_I wouldn't count on that_, Harry thought dryly, a bit annoyed that Remus was getting back to talking about Snape, as yet another incident came to his mind…

_Harry wandered around the dungeons, wondering where Snape was. It was rather early in the morning, yes, but it wasn't terribly early, judging from the temperature of the air and the feel of the sun slanting on his face, and he was pretty sure Snape would be up and about by now. Harry had spent the previous night eating alone under Snape's watchful eye instead of suffering another long evening at dinner with the other teachers. _Though it had been rather amusing at times_, Harry admitted. He also admitted that he probably would not have survived it if Snape had not been there to cut down every clumsy attempt at sympathy. The thought of them all querying if he, the poor dear, were fine, if he needed rest—hearing all the hushed conversations that would not be quiet enough and the stony, awkward silences and the false attempts at levity (for who could be blithe when their precious Boy-Who-Lived is blind?)—the thought of them gripping his arm as they tried to guide him along as though he were some useless cripple—the thought of being touched— _

_He wouldn't have been able to stand it. _

Now where is Snape_? Harry wondered irritably, casting a wide-ranged stunner Snape had taught him last night at the Sounding Globe (which rolled halfway down the corridor before stopping and beginning to float again). He began to clamber out of the dungeons and up to the Great Hall when he heard staccato footsteps coming his way. _

_He needed to wait only a moment before the voice came as well. "Potter!" _

_Harry couldn't help but cringe slightly at the sharpness in the voice. It had been a long time, he realized, since he'd heard it. _

_"Professor, I—" _

_"Get out Potter." _

_Harry's first instinct was to meekly obey, but he frowned. The potions master sounded rather breathless, as though he— _

_"Potter! Are you deaf as well as blind? Get out!" _

_Harry flinched. _Something's up with him today_, Harry thought shakily. But—despite the alarms that were screaming in his head—he didn't leave: there was something about Snape that he had to know— _

_"Potter, I have repeated myself twice and I will not repeat myself again," Snape hissed in a dangerously low tone. Harry swallowed, but cast his mind about—where had he heard this tenor, this tone—"Leave. Now." _

_The answer clicked just as Snape moved—"You're hurt!" Harry blurted out in realization, taking an involuntary step back. "Sir," he added much more quietly. _

_A definite pause. "It does not concern you," Snape snarled at last. "Go, Potter, while I can still restrain myself from—" _

_"Was it Voldemort, sir?" Harry asked quickly. Blood pounded in his veins. He hadn't felt anything at all—not even a twinge in his scar—and because of this inactivity, he'd become numbed. He'd almost, almost managed to forget, or at least learn not to think about it, but this sudden reminder sent chills of dread racing down his spine— _

_"DO NOT CALL HIM THAT!" _

_Harry backed away from Snape's furious, advancing voice so quickly that he stumbled and knocked his head on the wall. Stars burst across his vision, and in that terrible moment, he was in the cell again. The cold stone floor pressed against his shivering back, and a hand, clammy and cold and forceful and ruthless, grabbed him roughly—he uttered a high, keening sound, and the hand left_…

_The sounds oscillated into focus. Someone was calling him. _

_"Potter?" The voice sounded ragged, and it held something that he had never heard in that voice: worry. He realized a moment later, that it was Snape. "Potter!" A pause. "Po—Harry." _

_Harry froze, unable to believe it. Snape had called him by his first name. Never had this happened before, never, never_… _The thought brought waves of hot and cold swirling through him. He felt like a deer in the headlights of a rapidly approaching truck. His heart was pounding relentlessly, and he was a little breathless from disbelief, wonder, and fear. _

_He took a sharp breath when the silence stretched too long, and whispered, "Professor?" _

_A rustle of cloth. "Potter," Snape muttered coldly, from somewhere far above him. _

_Harry swallowed and got numbly to his hands and knees. He had dropped his cane somewhere and he began to grope around, for the first time since their first lesson feeling acutely humiliated and_… _useless. The ice in Snape's voice cut through him and had frozen that little something that had not yet dared to grow. _Useless, stupid, idiot_, he berated himself as he finally found his cane and climbed shakily, with agonizing slowness, to his feet. He felt a surge of anger. _Idiot. Stupid, worthless freak.

_He took another deep breath. "I am sorry, Professor," he said stonily. "I'll leave you alone now." He moved in the direction of the Great Hall. Silence followed him all the way. _

"Harry? Harry? Has he blown up on you? He should know better, when—"

"I don't think we can't not blow up on each other," Harry interrupted. "Though it's… not the same. Different." _Very different_. He pushed away the thought and changed the subject. "The professor mentioned a way for me to continue my studies."

The werewolf didn't comment on this abrupt change of subject. "Oh?"

"Yes." The memories came streaming back. "The catch is I'd need a familiar to bond with. Then I can share its eyes to see…"

_After he stumbled out of the dungeons, head throbbing and body shivering, Harry discovered another usage of the Sounding Globe. It could play music. The selection, though, was limited to a frenzied rendition of Bach's Toccata and Fugue. He let it play, the organ notes swirling around him. The melodies became solid in the darkness, and he felt them lithe and soaring, harsh and cold as he floated on his numbness. _

_He almost didn't hear the door open, but he did and his wand was out, pointing at the sound. _

_"Put your wand away, Potter," Snape commanded. _

_Harry stood still and unmoving for a moment before he obeyed. _

_Snape made a disapproving sound as he turned off the music streaming from the Globe. "And what if I were an imposter, Potter?" _

_Harry turned his head away. He felt anger, but the anger was at himself as much as it was at Snape. He was angry with Snape for snapping at him and attacking him as though he were a worthless punching bag, and he was angry at himself—and hated himself—for being weak. But as strong as his anger was, it was far less than last year, and the feeling of emptiness was just as strong. _Just go away_, he thought dully. _

_"I had nearly forgotten that this globe could play music," Snape said blandly. _

_Harry remained unmoving. _

_There was a long pause. "How is your head, Potter?" Snape demanded. _

_"You are welcomed to assess the damage," Harry said coldly. _The damage you caused_, he thought, and the words hung unspoken in the air. He clenched his fists in the sheets, readying himself for an onslaught of hateful, cutting words that were sure to come. _

_"I did not mean for you to be hurt," Snape said instead. He sounded stiff and uncomfortable, and the words came with awkward hesitation. _

_Harry unclenched his fists at the unexpected words. His anger at the potions master faded. He knew how difficult it must have been for Snape to attempt an apology. He bowed his head. The emptiness seeped through him where the anger had kept it at bay. "I should be the one to apologize," he said bleakly. He hated himself for being weak, and he was still frightened. "I'm—you were in a bad mood, sir, and anyone who had just faced V_…_ the Dark Lord has that right, and I shouldn't have been so—" _Weak. Stupid. Clumsy

_"Potter_…_" Snape began irritably but trailed off uncertainly. Harry realized belatedly that this was first time he'd ever heard Snape sound so_… _speechless. "Don't be so self-centered as to take all the blame for yourself," the potions master snapped at last, though both of them knew that the words were just a thin veneer for things that couldn't be spoken. _

_"I wouldn't dare, sir," Harry replied anyway in a quiet voice. He found himself slipping into brooding. Self-centered? Blame? They were such a meaningless words. He didn't blame himself. He hated and was ashamed of himself. He couldn't even defend himself against his relatives—mere Muggles who used no magic or guns or knives. And the others—he didn't blame them either. He might have, in the beginning, but all the blame had been beaten out of him until it left only an aching emptiness that reeked faintly of betrayal. They couldn't have known, and they certainly would not have believed it, that he—who had become the emblem of Gryffindor strength—was actually so pathetic, so lonely_…

_Movement. "Drink this, Potter," Snape ordered, sounding much more like his usual self. _

_Harry raised his hand hesitantly and felt a vial pressed in his hand. "What is it?" _

_"Still afraid that I'll poison you?" Snape replied dryly. _

_Poison. _I almost wish it were_, he thought with a burst of savage anger. Then he would die and he would be able to forget this nightmare for real, and_… That's just stupid, _he told himself with a different kind of anger. Stupid and melodramatic and selfish. If he died, the prophecy would be fulfilled, and Voldemort would take over the world. He was just being stupid. Idiotic. Weak. Only the weak sought escape through death. _

_"Tell me something that only we would know," Harry ordered, surprised at how stern he sounded. _

_"You confused the magical properties of frog spleen with those of toad liver a few days ago," Snape said after a slight pause. _

_"Go on. Sir." _

_"You described a theoretical potion based on the properties of mandrake extract and bundimun, and though the premise was passable, your later assessment of the addition of newt eyes was nothing short of abysmal. Enough, Potter?" _

_Harry's heart lightened as he remembered the conversation that they had had. "Yes, sir. Thank you," he added as an afterthought. _

_"Drink it, Potter," Snape repeated, sounding impatient. "I didn't stand the Spanish inquisition for nothing." _

_Harry smiled slightly and obeyed, tossing the potion to the back of his throat so he would not have to taste it if it was disgusting (it wasn't, though there was a bitter tinge to it). He felt the potion slide down his throat and spread through his body like sunrise. _

_"What is it?" _

_"That is something you should know from your first year," Snape said with a faintly martyred air. _

_Harry blinked. "I_…

_"In that potion, I have captured the senses. It is the Claresco Elixir—a potion to enhance your senses of smell, hearing, and touch." _

_Captured the senses_… _"Oh." He let a smile spread across his face. "I remember now. Though it was buried a bit under your words about me being the 'newest celebrity.'" _

_He stopped, fearing that perhaps he had gone too far. _

_"Don't even try to deny it, Potter," Snape replied in a dry, faintly mocking tone instead of the poisonous hiss as Harry had feared. "Half the class was staring at you, not paying attention at all. The other half was pretending not to stare at you and failing miserably." _

_Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. The moment the unfamiliar sound rolled out of his lips, the butterflies returned to his stomach, and he feared that Snape would leave, or snap, or cut him to pieces with his tongue. _

_But it didn't happen. _

_"Thank you, Professor, for the potion," he said after a pause. He could feel the potion's effects already: Snape's breathing was suddenly louder, he could hear the Sounding Globe making little squelching sounds from a corner in the ceiling, he could feel each thread in the sheets under his hand_… _"How long does it last?" _

_"Permanently. There is a potion with reverse effects: the Exsurdo Draught, though I hope not to be forced to brew it for you in the near future_…

_Harry shook his head. "No, I was merely wondering. Thank you very much. It's very effective." _

_"Of course," Snape said archly. Harry let a smile form on his face, though he was still a little nervous about doing so. The old Snape would have been flung into the darkest of moods upon seeing Harry smiling, and this man in front of him wasn't not the old Snape; they were still the same person, just changed, as he had changed. It was still strange and he still wondered at the fact that he was having a civil conversation with Snape—his father—and part of him warned him that he was looking for things that didn't exist, that he was worthless and his precious hopes were a fool's dreams, but he couldn't help but feel his heart lighten and the darkness recede. _

_"Now with that out of the way, we shall continue your lessons, Potter. I will be telling you today of a way in which you might be able to see—not with your own eyes, but with another's." _

_Harry froze as he considered Snape's words. "Another's eyes?" _

_"Yes, Potter. It is the Fidelis Animalis Ritual. It will allow you to see through the eyes of an animal familiar that you have bonded with." _

_"Bonded_…

_"A magical connection, Potter." _

_"Yes, sir, I know, but—" _

_Snape grumbled something about having to explain even the basics. "If you invest enough emotion in some sort of pet, Potter, and if that pet invests enough emotion in you, a bond will form. The Fidelis Animalis Ritual operates on the magic in the bond and allows you to see through your familiar's eyes—given that your familiar can see, of course." _

_Harry nodded in understanding. _

_Snape's next words sounded resigned. "I expect the headmaster will let you loose to Diagon Alley sometime after term begins so that you may pick for yourself some kind of animal, Potter_…

"Hmmm. It certainly has many possibilities. I'd advise you to bond with an animal with good eyesight."

"Yes," Harry replied, "like octopuses."

"Really?"

Harry smirked. "Yeah. Professor Snape briefed me on some of the animals. Octopuses apparently have extremely good eyesight."

"Ah. Pity you're not a mermaid then."

Harry chuckled. A comfortable silence fell between them.

"Harry…" Remus sounded ominously tentative. "Have you… told?"

Harry shook his head, his bubble of contentment now popped. He was hoping the werewolf would somehow forget this topic, though he knew it was impossible. "No. Not yet. I will, Remus. I promised." _And I will_, he told himself firmly. _Someday_…

"Harry, the longer you wait, the worse it'll be when they find out."

He sighed. He knew it too, and yet… "It's just that…" He trailed off.

Harry heard the werewolf shift closer and involuntarily stiffened. Remus must've noticed, for he stilled. "I won't lie and say you haven't changed, Harry, but you're still Harry to me, and I'd never just cast you off. And your friends—they'll stay by you, now matter what: Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger… And it hardly matter what the rest of the world thinks, believe me, Harry—"

Harry shook his head. "It's not that," he muttered, wishing Remus would leave him in peace.

"Harry, I'm serious—"

"It's not them," Harry cut in. A silence followed.

"I'm sure… I'm sure Sirius wouldn't have though any less of you, Harry," Remus said softly.

_Sirius_. Harry felt himself ache. Would Sirius have accepted him? Harry remembered the confrontation at Grimmauld Place between Sirius and Snape and the hatred that had oozed out of both men… But he could also remember Sirius's love, and how the older man would have died readily for him… _He'd have accepted me. He would, in fact, have hated Snape all the more for being my biological father_, Harry realized, slowly, _but_… But that would have been the Harry of long ago, the Harry that had hated Snape and would have worked himself into a screaming rage at the potions master for daring to be his father. That Harry was dead. He remembered with painful clarity the tremulous hope he'd felt when Snape had made his apology, the awe that choked him when Snape had given him the cane, the numbness that had swamped him when Snape had shouted at him, the overwhelming solidarity when he had heard Snape's voice begging for forgiveness and release in his nightmares, the aching whenever he thought of that forbidden hope—of Snape—of, perhaps, family…

And Sirius would never have understood. He could hear, so clearly now, Sirius's voice yelling at Harry, demanding what was wrong with him—how could he stand that greasy git?—how could he want that—that _bastard_ as a father? Sirius wouldn't have understood Harry's need. Sirius would have shrunken into himself, turning back into that ragged skeleton, eyes becoming lost and confused and dead, because Sirius would have felt that Harry had rejected him and chosen Snape instead when it was utterly different…

"He wouldn't have," Harry agreed softly. _With the Harry Potter of old, he wouldn't have_… But he kept his thoughts unsaid. Sirius was dead, and if nothing else, he was going to let his godfather's memory rest in peace.

"And it hardly matters what Professor Snape thinks," the werewolf continued. "He won't be able to do anything about it, and I daresay it'll upset him more than it'll upset you."

"Of course," he whispered miserably. The words cut him like a poisoned knife, killing the hope that had just begun to bloom.

Silence.

_Don't think about it_, Harry told himself, returning to the mantra he'd adopted ever since arriving at Hogwarts. "How was… your mission, Remus?"

"Oh." The werewolf sounded highly uncomfortable. "It was—I was sent to track down the Dursleys."

"…Oh." Harry licked his suddenly dry lips. "And did you find them?"

Before Remus could answer, Harry stiffened at the sound of incoming footsteps, and his wand was out when a voice muttered the password and pushed open the dormitory room.

"Ah—Severus," Remus said politely.

"Lupin," Snape sneered. "Potter, the headmaster desires to see you," the potions master barked. Harry nodded, recognizing the tone. It was the hostile kind Snape adopted by default.

"Yes, sir," he murmured, reaching out and finding his cane. He pushed himself to his feet. He heard a rustle of robes from Remus, and guessed that the werewolf was itching to help.

"The headmaster wants to see you too, Lupin," Snape barked before sweeping out in a snap of black robes.

Harry followed carefully, hearing Snape's nearly silent breaths as he waited for them at the bottom of the staircase. He felt Remus floating near him, and was half-heartedly inclined to tell the werewolf that he was being more of a nuisance than an aid.

"Stop hovering, Lupin," Snape said in a silky, derisive tone. "It doesn't become you." _You can always count on Snape_, Harry thought wryly, with a surge of timid… fondness, even as Remus's word echoed hauntingly in his ears.

.: 4 :.

They made their way to the headmaster's office, Harry listening more to Snape's sharp steps than the werewolf's muttered instructions. Their route felt alien, though he had known it better than the back of his hand. _That_, he reminded himself dryly, _was when you weren't blind, Potter_. He paused for a split second. _Not Potter_, he thought. _Snape_. And then, as he began moving again, he changed his mind once more. _Not Snape, either, until—unless he_… _he accepts_…

"Oolong tea," the potions master snapped, and Harry heard the heavy thud of stone as the gargoyle leapt out of the way.

As they waited on the revolving staircase, Harry felt the vague tentacles of dread—which he had managed to keep away on their way to the headmaster's office—beginning to wrap themselves around him. Dumbledore wanted to see him: that was never a good thing. They were probably going to ask him about the Dursleys, and—he really didn't want to even think about the Dursleys. They would have found out that Vernon was dead, and the remaining Dursleys would probably have blabbered about how Harry had summoned a snake and…

He really didn't want to talk about the Dursleys.

Snape knocked sharply on the door and Harry heard the slightest groan of the door opening.

"Ah, Severus, Remus, Harry…"

Harry walked, swinging his cane in front of him. While he was still wondering where to sit, he heard a rush of wings and felt something soft and gentle brush him. He tensed, and turned to stone when he felt something pulling through his hair…

But then he heard the song—the phoenix song. _Fawkes_… The song lapped over him like tranquil waves. He was reminded of the warmth of a blazing fireplace in the dead of winter. The warm winds from the beating of the wings and the trilling seemed to beckon him towards…

He tapped his way across the room and walked into a chair. "Thanks, Fawkes," Harry murmured as he seated himself. He felt talons gently grip his shoulder, and he forced himself not to tense up when he felt something warm and wet drip on his eyelids.

"What's…" He touched his eyes and opened them. Everything was still dark, and some of the wetness touched his eyes…

"Fawkes's tears," Dumbledore explained gently. "I'm afraid they cannot help your sight or the ability for you to produce your own tears, as even phoenix tears cannot bring the dead back to life."

Harry nodded, stroking Fawkes's head. The disappointment didn't hurt very much anyway, he told himself: he knew he wasn't going to see again, even if a persistent tendril of hope refused to die. The phoenix's warmth warded off most of the gloom that had threatened to creep into him. "I understand," he said evenly.

"Lemon drop, anyone?"

Remus politely declined. Harry and Snape remained silent.

Dumbledore sighed. "Ah well. It saddens me how little the world understands lemon drops… Anyway." His voice grew grim. "Harry, Remus completed his mission and successful found the Petunia and Dudley Dursley. From what we've gathered, Vernon Dursley is dead."

Harry nodded, still stroking Fawkes. He remained silent, and his hand trailed down Fawkes's lithe neck and brushed the phoenix's wings before when, with a soft cry, the bird took flight and was gone in a brush of feathers.

"Headmaster," Snape said smoothly, "I hardly see how my presence is required here—"

"Patience, my boy," Dumbledore admonished gently. He continued. "Petunia Dursley seemed… mentally unstable when we found her. From what she and Dudley Dursley said, it seemed that there was a snake involved."

Harry dropped his hand from where he had held it when Fawkes left. "Where did they say they disposed of the body?"

A silence. "Dudley Dursley said that they… that they chopped it off and dumped it into a creek, or a river," Remus said hesitantly, disbelievingly.

_That woman who butchered the dead body of her husband, she is my mother's sister_, Harry thought, and shivered.

"How did Vernon Dursley die?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry paused to consider how to answer it. He couldn't tell an outright lie without contradicting Petunia and Dudley's testimonies, which were most likely given under Veritaserum. Though he felt the weight of those light blue eyes, they no longer skewered him the way they did before. The impressions and memories of a stern and powerful Dumbledore were juxtaposed by the remembrance of the old man with a weary voice and tear trickling into his white beard. Harry felt a brief urge to stay silent and let the others in the room stew, but another part of him told him to confess, to tell Dumbledore—_remember Sirius?_—but he also remembered the snake and the words that he had managed to disremember for so long… _Slytherin's heir_…

"Harry?"

"He was bitten by a snake," Harry replied at last. "A very poisonous snake, apparently. I don't know much more besides that. I didn't summon the snake, or tell it to bite Vernon; it found me, and I know for certain it didn't come from Voldemort, or I'd be dead already."

The others digested the news in silence. Harry felt their stares.

"Are you saying, Potter, that a snake just somehow appeared in your room one afternoon?" Snape asked skeptically.

Harry's stomach began sinking as Snape's voice steadily gain disbelief and contempt. "That's basically what happened, sir," he said quietly.

Snape snorted.

"Severus…" Dumbledore said in a warning sort of tone. Mercifully, Snape stayed silent. "I'd like to ask you one more question, Harry. What was the wandless magic that you performed?"

Harry frowned, casting his mind back to that night… "I think… _Alohomora_. To unlock my," he gestured at his wrist, "manacles." He wished Fawkes were still beside him, to ward off the memories that were creeping back relentlessly.

"I see. Thank you, Harry… I have here—"

"Headmaster?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Where are the Dursleys now?"

"Safely tucked away in the headquarters," Dumbledore answered. Harry nodded. They were far away from him, far, far away…

Dumbledore sighed. "The reason that I called the three of you here today was for the reading of Sirius Black's last will and testament…"

_Sirius's will?_ Harry drew in a sharp breath, hearing Remus doing the same. _Damn Dumbledore for launching it so unexpectedly._

Harry heard a snap of robes. "In that case, then, I hardly see how my presence is required—"

"Oh, but it is, Severus," Dumbledore said gravely. "Sirius requested it, and as his last will and testament, I believe that you should honor it."

"I think not," Snape sneered with barely concealed fury. "I won't stand by and let that mangy mutt piece slander me—"

"Snape!" Remus snapped. "Don't you dare insult Sirius—"

"—while he's too dead for me to retaliate—"

"SEVERUS!"

Harry jumped at Dumbledore's tone. He heard the rustle of robes as Snape stiffly took his seat. Both Remus and Snape were breathing rather heavily, and Dumbledore sounded disturbed as well. Harry felt like a rock at the edge of a sea while a tempest brewed.

"Any questions, gentlemen?" Dumbledore queried. "Good." Harry heard a tapping sound and a muttered incantation before he felt a surge of magic in front of him.

"This, the following, is the last will and testament of Sirius Nigellus Black…" Harry froze at the sound of his godfather's voice (which sounded a bit uncomfortable and pronouncing such formality). When Dumbledore had mentioned the reading of the will, Harry hadn't expected _Sirius_ to read it… The old wound of Sirius's death split open, and he clutched tightly at the cane in his hands. "…in the event of my death or permanent incapacitation, I hereby distribute my possessions as follows: to Albus Dumbledore, I give Number 12, Grimmauld Place for the purposes of the Order of the Phoenix; to the Weasley family, I give twenty-five percent of the gold in the Black family Gringott's vault; to Remus Lupin, I give another twenty-five percent of the gold in said vault, and you _are_ going to accept it, Moony; to Hermione Granger, I give a thousand galleons and access to the Black family library at any time—and to my godson, Harry James Potter, I give everything else that had been mine, including the rest of the gold and stocks tied to the Black family, the estates, the magical artifacts, etc., etc. There's life ahead of you." Sirius's voice became gentler. "Harry—don't think too sadly of me."

Harry nodded and inclined his head, feeling a dull aching at the back of his eyes.

"And Snape." Sirius's tone changed rapidly, sounding contemptuous and angered. Harry could hear the rustle of robes coming from Snape; he was almost certain the potions master was glaring with smoldering hatred at whatever was speaking with Sirius's voice. It seemed terribly petty, Harry thought, arguing with a dead man's memory… "Albus has been trying to convince me to… settle our differences, or so he says." A snort. "As if. But if you're there to hear this, I'm sure you'll be pleased that I'm dead, though you might not be so pleased if you somehow hadn't managed to cause my death, one way or another." Sirius's voice sobered. "But enough of that. I ask you a favor on behalf on James." Harry heard Sirius take a deep breath. "Look after Harry. Remus will do that, and so will Albus, but you're the—the sneakiest git on record, and from what Harry's told me, you're the only one with a chance of keeping him safe. So I'm asking you to look after him."

Harry sat, thunderstruck at Sirius's last request. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation: his godfather tendering a request to Snape? But deeper down, he felt bitter, bitter anguish—Sirius loved him enough to lower himself and ask something of _Snape_, his mortal archenemy.

"I'm not asking you to do this for me or Dumbledore, but for James. Harry brought this up to Remus and I, and he's right—you're right—James and I _were_ gits at Hogwarts, but that's the past, and he saved your life at the Whomping Willow—don't you forget. And before… before James went into hiding…" There was a pause. "Before he went into hiding, he told me what—what Caius Cinna did to you, and he told me"—Harry felt the tension straining in the air—"that he found you and took you out of there to Dumbledore, so it's a life debt that he holds you doubly to. Honor it through Harry. Don't get me wrong—I _know_ you're still rotten to the core, but I know how these life debts work, and I know how your mind words, Snape, so don't you dare try anything." There was a momentary pause before Harry heard the voice change direction as Sirius addressed him. "Be safe, Harry, and be happy. That's all I ask of you. Good luck."

Silence descended.

For a moment, the only sound was of the gentle tinkling of the numerous contraptions in Dumbledore's office. Then, Harry heard someone stand up and stride to the door—_Snape_, he realized, recognizing the swift, harsh steps—open it and slam it shut behind him.

Dumbledore sighed.

"That could have gone a bit better," he murmured. "Remus, you may go now. Harry, I'd like to have another word with you."

Remus stood up as Harry's heart clenched with mild foreboding.

"Good-bye, Harry," the werewolf said. "I hope to see you in around a month's time: I've got places to go. Good-bye, Albus." Then he left.

"Professor?" Harry asked quietly. "Who was Caius Cinna?"

Dumbledore sighed. "There are many things, many secrets, that aren't mine to tell. I'm afraid that Professor Snape himself is the only person with the right to tell it."

Harry nodded. He understood what it meant to have certain rights over a secret. And he would respect that, as much as he wished to know the answers. The last part of Sirius's will made little sense to him, and he wanted to know its meaning very badly; he wanted to know why Snape had gotten so angry, because he couldn't—wouldn't believe—or maybe just desperately hoped—that Snape's anger hadn't come entirely from Sirius's request, hadn't come entirely from Snape's hatred of him, Harry…

"There were a few questions I should have asked Professor Snape before he left, but when he is like that, I'm afraid nobody can stop him. Harry… how do you feel about term starting?"

_Starting today, in a few _hours. He would have to face them—Ron, Hermione, the crowd of whispers and murmurs… He felt his stomach clench with dread. The few hours remaining seemed very short. "It's not a very bright prospect, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "You'll do well. Professor Snape agrees. I talked with him, and he told me that he is certain you are prepared for Defense Against Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and Charms." Harry blinked in mild surprise and hesitant pleasure. Snape _hadn't_ belittled him and proclaimed an utter failure… But thinking back on the evolution of their "truce" the past week or so, he knew he shouldn't have been so startled; but he couldn't help it. "In Potions, Herbology, and Care for Magical Creatures, however, he mentioned that you might have a few difficulties."

Harry nodded. Half a week ago, Snape had informed Harry of his O.W.L. scores: nine in all, averaging around an E, with the highest score in Defense in the history of the O.W.L.s (even more than Riddle and Dumbledore, Harry had thought dazedly), a shocking O in potions, and a few shameful D's and T's in Divination and History of Magic. Not that he'd been very surprised by those.

"Will I still be having lessons with Professor Snape after term begins, sir?" Harry asked.

"Yes, though of a different nature. Instead of Herbology and Care for Magical Creatures, you will be working with Professor Snape and our newest Defense Against Dark Arts teacher on Dueling as well as with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape in Healing Magic—both very difficult courses, but very beneficial as well."

Harry nodded, summoning his feelings of determination. Dueling and Healing sounded much more useful in fighting Voldemort than Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures. The feelings of determination faded somewhat when he thought back to the Prophecy and how weak and unprepared and useless he really was… "If I may ask, sir, who's the Defense Against Dark Arts teacher?"

"That remains to be seen, Harry. Now, as for potions, Professor Snape agrees to have you in his class, learning the theory if not the practical until you can find a familiar and perform the _Fidelis Animalis_ Ritual."

Harry nodded in agreement.

"Excellent. Now, just one more question: have you felt anything with your scar at all?"

"No, sir," Harry said honestly. It was true: he hadn't felt even the faintest twinges in his scar and hadn't had even the murkiest of visions. The peculiar absence of sensation gave him a queasy feeling. "It's as though Voldemort removed himself totally from me. I even…" he realized something: "don't feel the urges to—harm you, now that I'm near you." _Though it might do with the fact that I'm blind_…

Dumbledore sounded weary in his next words. "Thank you, Harry. We do not know why Voldemort is so quiet, though we have our suspicions… While I am glad that he has shut himself out from you, I still must ask you to practice Occlumency, and, if necessary, resume lessons with Professor Snape."

Harry nodded. He _had_ practiced Occlumency over the past week, and it had actually been much easier. He had learned the art of numbing himself to the world around him, of setting his soul adrift… Or perhaps it was simply because there was no Voldemort trying to bulldoze into his mind.

"Now, Harry, if there's anything, anything at all that you'd like to tell me…"

The headmaster trailed off.

_He's not stupid, and he's not blind_, Harry thought. _He's bound to have noticed the changes in my appearance_. In fact, Harry was rather surprised that none of the other staff had commented upon it—though it was probably because they attributed it to what had happened to him, or were simply too timid or polite or uncomfortable to ask. He wondered, and not for the first time, why Snape hadn't commented, though he was rather sure that it was because Snape simply had not been looking for anything of the sort in his face.

For a moment, Harry just wanted to say a sullen, "No, sir," but he decided against it in a rush of determination. He wasn't going to sulk and hide; he was not going to be weak and pathetic and touchy when his knowledge might be important.

But he still wasn't going to tell Dumbledore—not yet. He wasn't prepared. Dimly, he wondered if he was ever going to be prepared for it.

"There is something, something important, but I can't tell you yet, headmaster," he said at last.

There was a pause. "Very well, Harry. I respect your decision, though I hope that, in due time, you will tell me…"

Harry nodded. "I will." _I promised_. He stood up. "If that's all, sir…?"

"I will see you at the Welcoming Feast, Harry."

Harry let a wan smile form on his face. He was glad that Dumbledore hadn't pressed him, and felt grateful for it. "And, Professor, if I cannot tell you…" _If I die before I can_… His mind went back to the statue outside the healing spa. He had returned there several times before moving out of the hospital wing and had learned, via careful tracing of the words carved at the base, the name of the statue in whose hand he'd hidden his mother's letter and Snape's Order pendant. "Then Rosemary Paean can give you the answers."

Before Dumbledore could say another word, he tapped his way to the door, opened the door, and began his way down the stairs.

qpqpqp

The blue eyes watched under heavy eyelids. The mind beneath smiled, though the stony lips remained unmoving.

"Calm down, Hermione. We'll be there soon, and we'll see him…"

"But Ron, he's _blind_, and from what your mum told us, the Dursleys went over the top being cruel!"

"But he's Harry! He can take anything."

"Do you really think so? Especially after Sirius?"

"Oh shut up, Ginny. D'you think I don't know how my best mate would feel like?"

"But Ginny has a point, Ron…"

"Neville! Don't say you don't believe Harry won't pull through this!"

_Fools. All of them, fools. _

_They are the Potter brat's friends, are they not? _

_Yesss, Nagini, they are. They are so close_…

_They will die_…

_Yes—but not yet. Not when I have to claim what is mine. The Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore must not know_.

_He will not. _

_But after—when I gain more power than he could dare to dream_… _Dumbledore believes that the Potter boy will find strength in his love of these so-called friends of his. The redhead boy. He has thought scars, does he not? They are so easy to twist for anyone who sees them. And his sister_… _For all her bravado, she is weak. And the mudblood_… _Perhaps I will slit her throat and send Potter a picture of her after she is dead before I leave Hogwarts. Or perhaps I will send her to Donovan—he knows best of all how to treat filth like her. But I must wait, and bide my time. I will have what is mine—soon_…


	8. Revelations

**Chapter 8: Revelations**

Harry sat in his usual seat at the Gryffindor table. From outside, the distant murmur of chatter was drowned out by the rumble of thunder and the patter of raindrops. _They'll be here soon_, he thought. Despite all his attempts to calm down, he was feeling terribly nervous. He ran his right thumb over his wand, and clutched his cane tightly with his left hand.

After his talk with Dumbledore, he had returned to the seventh year dorms and found a set of Hogwarts robes laid out on his bed. They felt new, but not stiffly so, and were a welcomed relief from his drab hospital garbs. And hour or so before he had gone down to the Great Hall, McGonagall had barged into his dorm and examined him critically. In that moment, while the two of them were alone, he was sure she had noticed his changed: even he, blind, had noticed them. His gait felt significantly different, and it wasn't because of his limp; his nose felt hideously enormous under his fingers (though his sense of smell had sharpened almost exponentially); his hair swung in oily locks about his face, despite his best efforts to keep it behind his ears. He had seriously considered cutting his hair, but he knew that doing so would only make him look more bizarre, especially since he couldn't see how his cut would look.

He was glad that Snape hadn't commented on his changes; but on the other hand, it made his task of speaking first much more difficult. _Snape_. Ever since the reading of Sirius's will yesterday, he hadn't come upon Snape even once. Though he had hovered briefly outside the dungeons, he knew better than to brave Snape's wrath. Snape wouldn't have been anything but wrathful: that much he knew, and it cast a dismal cloud over his gloomy apprehension.

The creak of the doors echoed through the hall and the murmuring from the head table ceased. Thunder roared. _Bloody unpredictable weather_, Harry thought, stiffening as the approaching babble washed over him relentlessly… _One, two, three_—_ah, finally_. The babble abruptly hushed as the students noticed him. He kept his face tranquil and eyes closed, though he considered opening them and glaring sightlessly just to hear a few of them shriek. _It might be fun_, he thought hollowly, bitterly.

The students brought with them the smell of wet clothes and rainwater. He heard the scraping of chairs far down Gryffindor table. _So people are sitting far away from me_, he noted.

"Where is he?"

"Mum wouldn't tell us exactly what happened—"

Harry's heart sped up.

"I wonder if he got any of our letters…"

"And Dad knows too, but he wouldn't tell—"

_Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville_, he thought, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He suppressed the miserable urge to limp away into some shadowed corner and hide.

"Don't be silly, Dumbledore said he can't see anymore, how would he read our letters?"

"D'you suppose it's really bad? Mum always bursts into tears—"

"Where _is_ he? He's here, isn't he—"

"_Harry?"_

Harry managed a weak smile at Hermione's voice. "Hi, Ginny, Ron, Hermione…"

"HARRY!"

Harry steeled himself as footsteps hurried towards him, and his heart sank as he heard Ron's words, blurted out in disbelief, "But Hermione, that's not—that's not Harry…"

He had just begun to open his mouth to reply when, without warning, he felt a rush of air—he tensed, and arms enveloped him like shards of darkness— ("_Harry! We missed you so much, and were so worried—"_) He jerked his arms to his chest and his legs together, and he heard his cane clattering on the ground with unnatural loudness— (_"Hermione! You're choking him_…") Hands were touching him, hands were groping him, over his back and neck and down his chest, clammy and cold—in the darkness, all over his body, and he—powerless, a weak little filthy freak, unable to stop it, unable to cry out… (_"No I'm not, Ginny_… _Harry_…")

His mind, already sailing off the precipice, slipped back into his body. The hushed sounds of a crowd of spectators, the absence of hands touching him, his own uncontrollable trembling, the deluge of rainwater… ("_Harry! Why isn't he responding…?_") All of it returned, and he took a shaky breath, straining against the darkness to clear his mind and steady his hands.

"Harry?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"I'm—fine," he said flatly, trying to stretch his uncooperative facial muscles into a grin, and tensed even more when Hermione didn't leave…

A touch, next to his neck—

"Your hair, Harry…"

He froze, torn by screaming urges to stay absolutely still or scramble away or lash out—

"…why is it so oily?…"

The hand ran down his hair and he felt it brushing his neck—_the hands: caressingly, all over him, over his stomach and between his legs_—

("_Harry_…?")

—_A cold, dark cell_—

("_He seems to have zoned out again or s_—")

His hand was on his wand before he could think and he swung wildly— He felt a bolt of magic burn down his arm and explode from the tip of his wand— Dimly, he was aware of a startled cry, but he was too lost in the whirlpool of darkness to respond…

And then, as though he'd just awakened from a nightmare, the hands crept away, leaving behind a filthy feeling (_I need a bath_, he thought vaguely). Sounds swam into focus…

For a split second, there was only silence. Harry barely had time to wonder run his mind over what had happened, wondering why everyone was so quiet, when—

"HERMIONE!" Ron's voice was a shout of shock and horror, and Harry froze. He heard footsteps—whispers—fierce whispers—felt stares—

_What happened?_ he wondered anxiously. He remembered Hermione hugging him, he remembered stiffening and feeling the hands creep upon him, and then her… touching his hair, his neck, and—_Oh God_…—he remembered the bolt of magic that had erupted from his wand… The memory of the startled cry suddenly echoed deafeningly in his ears like a harsh, anguished scream—

"Hermione," he whispered, tottering to his feet, feeling lightheaded and dizzy and sick— "Hermione—"

"STAY AWAY FROM HER!" Ron roared, and Harry flinched, backing away. _I attacked her_, he thought, hysteria creeping into his mind—_I attacked her, she's hurt, oh God_—

"I…" His voice sounded dry and garroted and the words wouldn't come. _I attacked her, she's hurt, oh God, she's hurt, I hurt her_— He took a step forward, heart hammering. "I'm sorry, I—I couldn't—I—"

"STAY AWAY!" Ron roared a second time. Harry didn't flinch, but he swallowed hard, feeling his heart turn to lead. He heard sharp footsteps approaching, heard the background of frenzied whispers—"YOU! YOU—YOU—STAY AWAY FROM HER"—a weak moan, and a part of Harry wished desperately to be kneeling next to her, to be blubbering apologies, but the rest of him was frozen, suspended in dark nothingness—"Hermione!" Ron's voice was tremulous. "Are you… are you… thank God…"

"Weasley! Potter!"

Harry froze at the caustically biting voice and felt his stomach plummet even further. He slowly turned to face the speaker. Snape.

"What happened?" Snape asked, his voice holding more loathing than Harry could ever remember. Harry clenched his hands into fists, suddenly aware that they were trembling. He opened his mouth but words wouldn't come…

"He attacked her! For no reason! He nearly _killed_ her…" Ron's voice crashed over him, and he found that he couldn't say anything—he couldn't even shake his head, or nod, or breathe. He was frozen, a cold, terrible cloud of numbness swirling through his body.

"Really?" Snape sneered, his smooth voice dripping menace. "Has the Gryffindor trio reached an end? How tragic. Though I must say, I'm not surprised, given Potter's particular… tendencies."

_This can't be happening, please_, Harry thought dimly, feeling his throat choke with despair as the malice in Snape's voice washed over him like acid.

Another set of footsteps, sounding as though from far away, approached. "Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall barked. "What is the meaning of this? What happened to Ms. Granger?"

"_He_ attacked h—"

"Never mind," McGonagall snapped. "Take her to the hospital wing. Immediately!"

Harry listened to the sounds of Ron's voice—shaky and tender—as he tended to Hermione… The numbness cracked enough to let in a whiplash of pain: _I hurt her, oh God, I hurt her—I did—I— _

"Mr. Potter!"

Harry turned to face the Transfiguration professor, his face totally blank.

"You go to the hospital wing as well."

"You can't let him go!" Ron shouted. "He attacked her! He—he's a bloody Death-Eater—" The crowd gasped.

"That'll be enough!" Professor McGonagall barked. "I will hear no more such nonsense from you, Mr. Weasley!"

"But he's—"

"ENOUGH, MR. WEASLEY!"

Without another word, Ron grunted as though picking up something heavy, and then ran out of the Great Hall with heavy steps.

"I'll have to have a word with him later," McGonagall growled. "Mr. Potter," she snapped, "I'll take you to the hospital wing…"

Harry bent over, groped for a moment, found his cane, and shakily got to his feet. "No need, Professor. I know the way," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Before anyone else could say anything, he was on his feet, his strides taking him along the path to the infirmary… The tapping of his cane was unnaturally loud in the stunned silence. _I've just attacked Hermione in front of the whole school_, he thought again, and his heart clenched in misery. _Oh God. I hurt her, oh God_… The whispers rose like dark fires in the shape of hands… _I expect it'll be second and fourth year all over again_, he thought as the crowd's frenzied whispers sparked and leapt like nervous frogs. He continued walking, back ramrod straight, his heart and mind sick with guilt and despair… _And Snape_— The memory of his sneering voice suddenly made him want to curl up in a shivering ball…

"…and then he just _attacked_ her! He can't be—he can't have been Harry—"

He was at the hospital wing entrance now, and at Ron's words, he froze, unable to force himself to enter.

"Mr. Potter has gone through some severe trauma, Mr. Weasley," the nurse said in cold, clipped tones. "As regrettable as this is, it is only an accident." Ron made a disbelieving sound. "What you need to do is to give him your support and care," she snapped, sounding glacial.

Harry knew that Ron, though silent, was fuming. He swallowed, steeling himself, and entered the hospital wing, his entire body stiff and tense.

"Mr. Potter!" Harry heard her advancing footsteps and the swift rustling of her skirts. She mumbled something about how she knew letting him out of bed was absolute folly. "What are you doing, standing there? Get into a bed! Now!"

"I'm unhurt," Harry managed to protest.

"BED. Now."

Knowing that he would never win against Madam Pomfrey when she was like this—and because he was too tired and numb to put up a fight—he obediently tottered to one of the cots and slipped into the familiar confines of a hospital bed. He could feel Ron's burning, ceaseless gaze.

He heard the tinkle of glass vials bumping into each other. "Drink this," Pomfrey ordered, and Harry sipped at it obediently. He didn't know what the potion was, but it cleared away some of the numbness and dulled the pain and trembling that took its place.

"You'll spend a night here—no arguments! Miss Granger will too."

"Then I'm staying," Ron said immediately in a cold voice that Harry had never heard him use.

"Mr. Weasley—"

"No! He'll— I'm not leaving."

"Mr. Weasley! Your behavior is completely inappropriate—"

"I WON'T LEAVE!"

Silence. "Miss Granger is in absolutely no danger," the nurse said firmly, and Harry was overtaken by the memory of the startled cry Hermione uttered as she was blasted by his magic. _I am a monster, a freak_, he thought. He shuddered and clenched his hands into fists. _Oh God, I'm_…

"I'm staying."

"I'll have a talk with your Head of House, Mr. Weasley," the nurse said in a threatening tone.

"Go ahead!" Ron shouted.

There was another silence. "Very well then," the nurse said in a stiff tone. "You may stay, but I shall be going to Professor McGonagall all the same, and the moment I hear a disturbance of any sort…"

"Yes, ma'am," Ron growled. Harry listened to the rustle of skirts and the footsteps as the nurse left the infirmary, pausing to send back one last warning glance.

The silence that felt was stony and itchy all at once, and Harry struggled to breathe. He was still tense, and the potion's effects faded enough for the thought to return: _I hurt Hermione_. _I hurt her. I hurt her._ And then another thought, one that he had dreaded and had known with the first of Ron's words to him that day: _Ron_… _I've lost him_.

He sat up, slowly. He heard an almost inaudible rustle from somewhere off, and knew it was Ron stiffening. His mouth opened, and he had to shape the words like a potter wrestling forms out of stubborn clay. "Is… is she… awake?"

The silence extended until Ron hissed, "No," just as Hermione moaned. "…Ron?"

Harry was aware of more rustling sounds, and suddenly felt, more acutely than ever, that aching loneliness. It was as though a chasm had ripped open between him and the two who had been his best friends, and he felt himself drifting farther and farther away, with nothing he could do to bridge the abyss. He bowed his head slightly, his mind awhirl with thick clouds of numbness and Vernon's voice (_worthless freak, where are you friends now?_) and the ruthless, clammy hands…

Hermione spoke again, her voice weak and bewildered. "What happened, Ron? I remember—"

"_He_," Ron snarled, and Harry's heart flinched though his mind and body were too numb to do anything, "attacked you."

"He?" Hermione mumbled in disbelief. "Harry?"

"He's not Harry!" Ron shouted. "He can't be. Would Harry attack you?"

"I… but he…"

"Exactly."

Harry swallowed and found the will to stand. He moved forward a few steps just as Ron roared, "Don't get any closer!"

Harry stopped. "I won't. But I… I am Harry." He swallowed, acutely aware of how stupid he sounded. But at this point, he didn't care.

"Liar," Ron spat. "Harry would never attack us. Who are you? You might've fooled Dumbledore and the rest of the staff, but you can't fool us. And why do you look so much like Snape?"

Ron's words slammed into him but he kept his face blank. _He suspects_, Harry thought, heart pounding. _It will only be a matter of time before he finds out, and with that, everyone will know_… The unexpected brevity of the time he had left suddenly became suffocating. _Well?_ he snarled at himself._ What did you expect? That you'd have forever? That nobody else would notice? What are you stalling for?_ He knew the answer long before he asked the question. He was afraid: afraid that his world, nothing more than a card house, would topple… _I've already lost Ron_, Harry thought, suddenly numb and tired, _and Snape hates me right now, even though_—the thought came brokenly, hesitantly, caught by the nettles of his fear and uncertainty—_though it may only be because of something Sirius said in his will, and he may stop hating me if I wait a long enough time_… But it was one thing for Snape to hate Harry Potter and a totally different thing for Snape to hate his own son, for his own father to hate him. And it was yet something else entirely for his father not to acknowledge him, to refuse to accept him, to turn him away with a cold, angry sneer…

"Ron!" Hermione admonished.

"It's true, though!" Ron retorted. "That can't be Harry."

Harry licked his dry lips. "I am Harry," he said again, though his voice was a little more even. He was aware that he was suddenly very thirsty. "And I'll prove it."

"Prove it then," Ron snarled, overriding Hermione's weak admonitions.

"You and Hermione gave me my first real Christmas gifts. A big box of chocolate frogs from Hermione, and a sweater and homemade fudge from your mum, and in our second year, you gave me _Flying with Cannons_, and Hermione gave me that eagle-feather quill… And when you went with me to the Mirror of Erised, I saw my family while you told me you saw yourself as Head Boy, holding the Quidditch cup, without any of your brothers…"

"SHUT UP!" Ron roared. Harry did.

After a moment's pause, Hermione spoke. "He _is_ Harry." Her voice was very quiet. "You _are_ Harry."

"I am Harry," Harry echoed, "but I… I changed. I never meant to hurt you, Hermione." His voice sounded bleak and miserable, even to himself. "It was a… reflex. Perhaps you would understand if you knew…" He swallowed, unable to continue.

"Knew what?" Ron sneered.

"Ron!" Hermione snapped.

Ron ignored her, and Harry tried to force the words out. "I…" He remembered the pain, the helplessness, the loneliness and the despair… "Over the summer, I was—"

"Professor Dumbledore told us that your uncle hurt you," Hermione said gently.

"He is _not_ my uncle," Harry said sharply. He took a deep breath. "Vernon—did. He…" He could feel the hot breath against his ear as his uncle spoke those malicious words… "He hurt me very badly. But… after that, I…" The dark cell, the hands that ran over him… "I was…" The powerlessness he had felt as pain exploded in his most private parts… "I…" The shame, the fear, the breaking, the hands fondling him, and him—unable to stop them, unable to do anything, anything at all…

"Cat got your tongue, _Potter_?"

Harry was so shocked for a moment that his eyes fluttered open.

"_Ron! _What is— Harry! Your _eyes_…"

"He blinded me," Harry said flatly, shutting his eyes. "Vernon blinded me. You knew, though. Dumbledore told me he told you." And Harry knew he wouldn't—couldn't—tell them about what had happened afterwards in the cell and what Vernon had whispered to him as he endured the beatings and the pain, especially after hearing Ron's reactions…

"Oh, Harry…"

"That doesn't really explain why you hurt Hermione, though," Ron snapped, sounding no less hostile. "Or why you look so much like Snape."

"_Ron!"_ Hermione said sharply.

Harry took a shuddering breath. This was it, he knew. He felt as though he were on a churning river, heading relentlessly to a yawning waterfall. "After I was rescued, I received a letter from my mother." He paused, taking in a deep breath. "In it, she… told me that…" His voice suddenly faltered, and he had to force out the next words: "that my biological father wasn't James Potter."

Silence.

"That it was… Snape," he croaked.

Silence.

"I knew it," Ron growled. "No _wonder_ you look like Snape! You've been lying to us all along! You're the son of that—of that—"

"_Ron!"_

"He's not HARRY!" Ron roared. "He's SNAPE!"

Harry listened to Ron's word, though he didn't really register what the redhead was saying. The first word, the first syllable was enough. Ron was lost to him. Perhaps, if he had enough strength and Ron enough open-mindedness, their friendship may not totally die, but it would never be same. The little flicker of hope he'd been harboring all along died, leaving behind cold, barren ashes.

"Ron! How can you say that? It _is_ a—rather big shock, but it doesn't matter if his father was actually Snape—he's still Harry, it doesn't change at all what he's been for five whole years to us…"

_There's still Hermione_, Harry thought gratefully, pulling himself out of his sluggish despair, and a little bit of that hope shimmered back to life.

"…and he's—he's been hurt, he's _hurt_, and you ought to…"

"Hermione, don't you understand? HE IS NOT HARRY! HE'S SNAPE!"

There was an angry rustle of sheets. "RON! That's just like saying I'm inferior because my parents are Muggle! Parentage has nothing to do with this! It's—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted. "Please. Lie back down. You're… unwell."

"Because of _you_!" Ron hissed, suddenly close, and Harry cringed involuntarily. Vernon's voice and Ron's were nothing alike, but the malice in them, the hate—that was identical. A storm of memories (and hands) raged at the edge of his mind…

"_RON!"_

Harry backed away a step. He had to leave. Now. "I'll go," he whispered. "Get better soon, Hermione," he said hesitantly and turned around and blocked all sound from his mind except for the relentless tempest of spiteful, malicious words and memories, and limped out of the hospital wing, away from Hermione's angry shouts and Ron's incensed yells.

He paused in a corridor, forcing himself not to think of… anything. Just on where he was heading. Where he was running. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew where he wasn't. He couldn't bear to face Gryffindor tower, and he didn't fancy hobbling into the Great Hall, even though he was absolutely parched. The kitchen? _At least Dobby won't snarl at me_, he thought bitterly. _I hope_. He shook his head despairingly. _Don't think of it!_ He squeezed his eyes tight and clenched his fists and thought fixedly of where to run… His mind flew to the dungeons, but that train of thought halted abruptly as he remembered Snape's malicious tone…

"Mr. Potter."

Harry froze. _Damn it_, he thought desperately,_ of all the times to meet him_…

"I believe you were supposed to be in the hospital wing, Potter," Snape sneered, "or are you too good again for rules?"

Harry wanted to slide down and disappear. He didn't have the strength for this, not after Ron's brutal rejection and their one-sided shouting match; he felt a broken sob rising in his throat but he fought it.

"I couldn't stay there," he replied, sounding choked.

"And why not? Has the touching camaraderie of the golden trio reached an end?" Snape's smooth, mocking words beat into his brain, whirling around him relentlessly. _Please, just go away_, he pleaded. His hands shook. "The vaulted Gryffindor loyalty isn't as firm as it's praised to be, is it? Or this charming little fight one of your melodramatic dramas?"

"Please—don't," Harry begged, voice coming out as a croak. He didn't know what else to say.

Snape's voice became, if possible, even more mocking, more filled with hate. "Don't what, Potter?"

Harry took a deep breath, trying desperately to organize his thoughts. "I know you are angry, now, over—over whatever Sirius said in his will, something that I have no idea about… but _don't_ spill that anger on me"—_again_, he thought, unable to continue. _Not like you spilled your hate at James Potter on me for five years_.

"Black," Snape hissed, and Harry flinched at the onslaught of hatred that reeked from the potions master's voice, "was a stupid, arrogant, reckless brat, and your _father_ was too!"

Harry flinched at each malice-filled word, but at the word 'father,' he felt an uncontrollable desire to laugh hysterically. _My father—my father is you!_ he wanted to giggle, but the giggle felt like sobs. "Yes," he said, words tumbling out without his brain's control, "I am like them, I am stupid, and reckless, and arrogant and self-centered and filthy and disgusting and a freak, and I am a greasy git—like my father." He laughed.

"To the hospital wing, Potter," Snape sneered, sounding highly unimpressed.

"No," Harry said with an assertiveness that astonished him. "Not until I tell you what you need to know." He took a deep breath. "I…" _I am your son_, his mind rambled, but suddenly he couldn't just say it—he—

"Cat got your tongue, Potter?"

Harry snapped his mouth shut, the hysterical edge tottered by a flash of déjà vu. _That's what Ron said_, he thought, and crippling fear suddenly rose like a monstrous shadow and blasted through his mind like the howling winter wind. "I'm… I am your son," he said at last.

"Nonsense," Snape snapped before Harry had any time to brace himself. "Potter, you have clearly lost what pathetically miniscule amount of brain you had in the first place."

"NO!" Harry shouted. "It's true! _Look_ at me. Do I look like James Potter anymore? This nose—it's nobody's but yours—"

Harry flinched as Snape's voice cut across him like a whip. "If you think this prank"—_prank?_ Harry managed to think incredulously, feeling another brief flash of déjà vu—"is _funny_, Potter—"

"Seventeen years ago," Harry interrupted harshly, his words tumbling out on their own accord, "early in November, a band of Death-Eaters kidnapped as many Muggleborn women as they could. The women were blindfolded and masked and"—clammy hands, darkness, helpless cries—"taken… and only one survived, because a spy for the Order gave her his Order pendant, and it took her to the Hogwarts hospital wing." He swallowed. Snape was silent. "She married soon after to try to forget, and nine months later, she had a child, but because they were hiding, she disguised the child…" Harry paused, suddenly exhausted. There was a moment of silence, broken only by his own harsh breathing. "I am… that child."

The silence stretched on. Harry kept his head bowed, unable to lift up his face. He felt the oily strands of his hair curl about his face and brush the edges of this mouth. His words somehow found their way up his dry throat and parched lips: "And you are my father."

"No."

_No_. It took a moment for the word to sink in. And then it quietly echoed and reechoed and reverberated and thundered in his mind. _No_. He was numb. Numb. Despair froze him as the single word rumbled like a falling mountain. He could think of or hear nothing else. _No_.

"It's…" Snape's garroted voice suddenly broke into an infuriated snarl. "Impossible! You!—you are Potter's brat—you are _not_ my son—wherever you learned this—whoever told you this—Lupin! or Black—he—I—" Snape took a deep breath. "Leave," he grinded out through clenched teeth.

Harry remained unmoving for a moment.

"LEAVE!" Snape roared. "NOW!"

Without another word, he turned and left, limping each step until he stumbled and fell; and then he picked himself up slowly, and took another step. The numbness became something he choked on. His feet carried him drunkenly, and he broke into a faltering run, and his left eye became bruised from crashing into a wall, but he continued, Snape's words yipping at his heels like a relentless pack of hounding dogs.

He didn't want to go on.

Part of his mind begged him to stop, to find some release for the pounding at the back of his eyes, but still he went on. His feet carried him blindly, and he knew he was lost, but it didn't matter. As long as he was far away… As long as he kept moving, for he couldn't stop…

He became aware of approaching footsteps and stiffened, wondering with desperate hope and mounting dread if it was his father, but when he stopped, the footsteps were gone, and he knew he had imagined them in the first place.

_This is what you get for being such a fool_, he thought bitterly, _for clinging to a fool's hope. Stupid, stupid, stupid worthless freak._ He quickened his pace, bumped into a suit of armor, stumbled to the other side of the wall, and stopped to catch his breath. It was difficult to breath past the knot in his throat and through the numbness that swept his mind and body; all he wanted was to find release from this pain, from this overwhelming anguish…

He realized belatedly that he was _very_ thirsty. The purely physical need for water slowly overcame some of the pain and despair that tore his soul and he wondered where he was. The air was rather damp, and the silence was complete, save for his heavy breathing. _Don't think of it, Potter_, he told himself (_Potter_, the unquenchable parts of his mind whispered, _not Snape—Potter, Potter_…) Thanking Madam Pomfrey for the thoroughness of his cure, he took another step and reached out his hands…

He was sure he heard the footsteps again.

But before he could do anything else, he heard a whiny voice call, "Who are _you_?"

He jumped. He knew the speaker; it was Moaning Myrtle. _This must be her bathroom_, he thought and stumbled forward, deciding that Moaning Myrtle's company would be just as good—better, even—than anyone else's. And in a bathroom, there may be water…

"You're a _boy_," the ghost repeated, sounding both resentful and curious. "This is a _girl's_ bathroom. Who _are_ you?"

Harry opened his eyes and Myrtle gasped. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "I don't know who I am anymore." _You are _not _my son_. Snape's voice echoed in his mind again, and he squeezed his eyes shut and his hands clenched around the head of his cane. _He hates me_. Despair welled up in full force, choking him. _My father hates me. Ron hates me. I have no family. I am worthless, weak, unwanted_… _a freak_…

"Oh," said Myrtle, sounding subdued, and said no more, for which Harry felt a weak surge of gratefulness. He was suddenly exhausted, so tired that he wanted nothing more than to slip onto the ground and cast away all consciousness for the blankness of sleep. He wanted oblivion. It hurt, and he wanted it to end, to end, but there was no way he could release some of the pain through weeping. It wasn't because he could not shed any tears, but he had learned—learned too well—how to hold in his sobs and anguish and to keep them inside a trove of growing darkness and pain…

He tensed and spun around, sure that he'd heard the footsteps this time; and these footsteps were different from anyone's he had heard. "Who's there?" he demanded after a pause. _It might be a good idea to have your wand ready_, he told himself as his mind resurfaced from its despair, and he reached his hand into his pocket to get his wand—

The footsteps abruptly sped up—

Myrtle gasped—

Harry barely registered the sound of stone slamming onto stone when the castle gave a tremendous groan; the ground shook; and before he could even open his mouth to shout or scream for help, he found himself falling sideways—

Into nothingness.

qpqpqp

A pulse of magic shot out from the second floor girl's bathroom. It was tense and quivering, the magic of a ward going off as a chamber, deep underground, opened four and fifty-four years ago, opened once more. The pulse shivered through the castle, spiraling up and up to the headmaster's office—

On the seventh floor, the pulse of magic passed the tapestry of a garden. In a corner of the tapestry was a cypress tree with a green serpent wrapped around its trunk. As the pulse of magic passed, the serpent suddenly snapped forward, swallowed the pulse of magic, and then rewrapped itself languidly around the cypress tree.

The headmaster's office remained undisturbed.

qpqpqp

The boy with blue eyes snarled as the vertigo ended.

_Massster! Massster!_

_I am here, Nagini_.

_Massster_…

_Something happened. The boy was near, but the cassstle threw me and took the boy. He is not here anymore. _

_Was it Dumbledore? _

_Perhapsss. But I cannot believe he has this much hold over Hogwarts! It cannot be him. _

_Does he know you are here then? _

_The wards about his office are still intact. He is still blubbering away in his own ignorance. He cannot know._

The boy stepped forward towards the sink with snakes carved into its taps.

"Who're you?" the ghost asked from where she had peeked out, half-in and half-out one of the cubicles. "And where'd the other boy go?"

The boy narrowed his eyes, and red filled them.

The ghost gasped and quickly dived back into her toilet, but the boy had his wand out, and the incantation, spoken at a murderous hiss, had already left his lips.

"Let me go!" the ghost squealed, eyes wide with terror.

"Don't you know who I am?" the boy asked teasingly. His voice changed. "I killed you."

The ghost gasped. "You're _him!"_

"Yes," the boy went on conversationally and flicked his wand. "You weren't my first kill, you know." The ghost's voice trembled and shattered like her pearly white body. "But you are the first for me to kill twice."

The boy smiled as the echoes of the ghost's shriek flittered some more in the corners of the bathroom before reluctantly dying away.

The boy turned back to the taps.

"_Open_," he hissed.

Nothing happened.

The crimson eyes flashed. "_Open!"_ he commanded.

His voice echoed and then died into nothingness.

_Massster? _

_A block. A block. The entrance has been blocked. _

_Dumbledore? _

_Who else can it be? Yet this magic_…_ It is older, much older, and much stronger_…

_Who is it then? _

_I do not know, Nagini_. _I do not know_.


	9. In the Chamber

_A/N: I would like to express my appreciation for Procyon Black for giving this chapter an excellent beta and helping out with the Welsh. Thanks!_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 9: In the Chamber  
**

"Come in," he snarled, slamming his decanter down with a sharp _clink_.

The door opened; first a kind, gnarled hand, then the sleeve, strangely subdued in the flickering dungeon-light, and then the arm and the ancient face. The blue eyes held no twinkle.

"Albus," Snape growled deeply and ominously, not moving from where he slouched. A strand of oily black hair obscured his vision. "How nice to see you. I've been expecting you all day, did you know that?"

"Severus." The door shut, and Dumbledore quietly took a seat opposite to the potions master. "I see that you've taken the brandy out," he said after a heavy pause.

"Very good brandy it is," Snape hissed. "Very good, just like your _tea_. Didn't quite see the need to invite me over a cup of good old English tea to break the bad news, did you?" He snatched up the brandy and loudly poured himself a shot, tossing it back and slamming it down with the swiftness of a snake. His eyes were hidden in shadows.

Dumbledore sighed, very softly and almost unnoticeably. "I am… sorry, Severus—"

"Sorry?" The potions master forced out a bark of laughter. "Oh, I know you're sorry, and I know exactly what you're sorry for—that you must deal with such an uncooperative _tool_, that you must once again take the wearisome time to calm and soothe the feathers of your little black crow." The thin lips curled grotesquely, and the pale, shaking hand wandered back for the brandy.

"Severus." The voice was sterner this time, but it was also pleading. The brandy swished into the decanter, the decanter glittered through the air, and then with a snarling sigh slammed back onto the table. "Please, Severus." This time, the voice was gentle and open and truthful and aching.

"You swore!" The potions master shouted suddenly, his voice writhing bitterly, impotently. "You swore to keep him away from me, you _promised!_" One hand seized the bottle of brandy, but then slammed it back onto the table; the old headmaster flinched. Snape leaned forward and his eyes in the firelight were bloodshot and red. "_You promised me!_"

The old man reached out both his hands, and his voice was pained and sorrowful. "Severus, my dear boy, I am sorry, so terribly sorry, you don't know how I—"

"_Shut up!"_ A swipe of a black sleeve, and glass shattered on the flagstones, streaking the alcohol over the ground like blood. Shards of glass glittered darkly. "You promised me sanctuary from what _he_ did, and you lied!" He was on his feet, and with a swirl of black robes, he was behind his chair, as though keeping it a barrier between him and the outstretched arms of the headmaster. "You _lied_ to me—again!"

"Severus, _please_, I am sorry—"

"_I said, shut up!"_ He was panting where he stood, like a cornered animal. "Don't Severus me anymore! Just—don't!"

The old man's gaze didn't waver, and his throat worked once or twice. The silence stretched longer, like the shadows cast by the flames. His voice, when he spoke at last, was low and small. "Will you not simply let me say what I came to say?"

"No," Snape snarled. "I will not."

The old man closed his eyes briefly. "As you wish, Se—" He stopped, and his eyes opened. They stared at each other for a long moment. And then the old man was on his feet and was moving forward—

"Don't come any closer!" Snape cried, and cringed, but didn't move away, and then the old man had embraced him, and Snape's eyes were closed and his face twisted in a painful grimace of silent, soundless weeping, and the old man was rubbing his hand over the other man's back, soothingly murmuring nothing but, "I am sorry, so sorry, my dear boy, so sorry, so sorry…"

Snape was the first to pull away. He did so, silently, and walked with a stiff, slightly wobbly attempt at his usual stalk to the fireplace. The old man stayed where he was, one hand on the back of the chair.

"You know why I had to do what I did," Dumbledore said softly.

The other man closed his eyes. Dumbledore waited, the lines etched deeply on his weathered face. "Yes," Snape said brusquely after a pause. "I do." He shuddered, a deep, body-long shudder, and then he opened his eyes and his body lurched with an involuntary choke of laughter. "It seems a very big joke, though. You're hiring your old friend C-Caius Cinna to be the Defense professor. At least I will never forget the look on Flitwick's face."

A hint of a smile formed on Dumbledore's face, but it seemed only to deepen the wrinkles and shadows.

Snape staggered from the fireplace and collapsed ungracefully into one of the chairs. The headmaster glanced down at the shards of glass and the streaks of brandy across the floor, and took out his wand and muttered a spell. The mess vanished.

"Everybody here is going mad," Snape muttered. He glanced up. "Do you know what Potter said to me today?"

Dumbledore, who had been gazing contemplatively into the fire, stiffened infinitesimally and looked sharply at the potions master. Snape didn't seem to notice. "What did he say?"

"He told me—" He stopped. Dumbledore waited, and then Snape leaned forward, frowning. "He told me the oddest, the strangest thing. It—he—" He looked up again and continued hesitantly. "Everybody is mad, Albus. Even I. He said that I was his father. That's preposterous."

"Really," Dumbledore said neutrally. "And what did you say?"

"What do you think I said?" Snape demanded angrily. He launched himself out of his chair and began pacing, though his steps weren't very steady. "I told him no, of course. He's Potter's brat through and through, and—" He stopped and gazed owlishly at the headmaster.

The headmaster moved to a cabinet and took out a small bottle of light blue potion. "This might help you think."

"I can bloody well _think_," he growled, but downed it anyway. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Lupin," Snape said after a long pause.

"Remus?" Dumbledore asked, perplexed.

"Yes, that pet werewolf of yours; do you keep another that I don't know of?" Snape retorted, and continued pacing. His robes snapped about him. "He must have told Potter about it, to set him up as a prank." He stopped and turned swiftly at the headmaster. "Unless _you_ told him," he barked accusingly.

"Told him what?" Dumbledore asked, taken aback.

"About what happened that night seventeen years ago!" he snarled.

"I did not, Severus," Dumbledore said, a bit sharply, and then added more gently, "I wouldn't."

The potions master snorted. "There are many things I'd thought you wouldn't do, but you still did, like—" He trailed off again, and then stopped his pacing. He looked up fiercely. "Well?" he demanded angrily, crossing his arms like a confused, surly child. "First the Potter brat runs to me—after a spectacular fight with Granger and Weasley—and then proclaims that _I_ am his father, spilling out the secrets of seventeen years ago in the process!" He suddenly began pacing again, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. "This is—this is absurd, Albus, this is—"

"I think," Dumbledore said gently, "that we should find Harry, and ask him."

Snape stopped and opened his mouth, as though to disagree, but he snapped his mouth shut a moment later and nodded shortly. He opened his mouth a second time, a sneer on his lips, but stopped again, and closed his mouth almost sulkily. "As you wish," he muttered, and stalked out of the room.

qpqpqp

The putrid air tore at his hair, and he had no breath to scream with as he hurtled down the length of darkness. His fingers scrambled for purchase, but the rounded walls were slippery with slime, and as he twisted, his body turned helplessly, and he was falling headfirst—

He slid over the ground on his back and finally slowed to a stop. He lay spread-eagled, breathing in hard and deep, mind still spinning.

_What happened?_ he wondered dazedly. It took a long moment before the memories would come: talking to Myrtle, the footsteps, the ground tossing him, and then falling...

He sat up, shivering. All his clothes were wet, and a bunch of his hair had got stuck in his mouth. He spat it out and got to his feet.

_Where am I?_ he thought, wrapping both arms around himself. It was very quiet. There was no other sound besides that of his breathing, which echoed enormously. He realized at once that he was in a very big room, or cave. The air tasted wet, as though he were in a cavern behind a silent waterfall. He shivered again: it was very cold.

_How did I end up here from Myrtle's bathroom?_ he wondered, and with that, he realized where he was. His breathing stopped, and he waited for the deep, ominous hiss of the basilisk, or the whisk of air as the thunderous tail whipped by his head, or Tom Riddle's honey-smooth voice.

There was nothing.

He exhaled slowly, shuddering, and continued to breathe. _There's nothing here_, he reminded himself. No monster, no shade, no red-haired girl to save. He was alone.

He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered. He tried to concentrate on the echoes of his breathing, but his mind flooded with thoughts and emotions and remembrance and it hurt. Existing was tiring and took so much strength, and he was weary and lonely and aching, and the only way he could keep on going was to block out everything, but it was like trying to stop the ocean's tide. He felt miserable.

He sat onto the cold, hard ground and huddled himself into a ball. An achy feeling had developed behind his eyes, and there was a tight knot in his throat. He wished—he wished to be touched. The thought bloomed inexorably, unstoppable, drenching his spirit with longing. He wished to be touched and comforted by a human who cared for him; he wished that there were someone who might whisper soothing nothings or hum a quiet melody, who would be _here_, next to him, caring, and he wished it was his father; but he was a freak, and he didn't deserve any of that, and even though he had tried his best, enduring each endless night and lightless day and throbbing, pain-drenched moment—even though he'd done everything he could. He wasn't good enough; and anyway, he'd probably bite off the hand of whoever would get close enough to touch him, no matter how much he yearned and wished for it. For the touch of those who loved him. A family.

He pillowed his face with his hands and squeezed his eyes tightly, wishing that there were someway to absolve the tightness in his throat and behind his eyes. The ground was hard and dug into his hip and ankle and shoulder, but he was tired, so tired, and wished it would all go away. It hurt so much, so much, why couldn't it just end? Please, let it end...

"_Master. Master_."

It was the insistent pain of the stony ground digging into his thigh and shoulder that made him realize that he was awake. Time seemed to be suspended, revolving slowly like the caressing sounds of the waves.

"_Master_."

The gentle hissing surrounded him like an army of ghosts, and he froze. A thousand jumbled memories tumbled through his mind— _The basilisk_, he thought, panicking, _I killed it, it's dead, I_—

"_You have come at last, Master."_

The storm of his thoughts abated abruptly. The voice. It was strangely familiar (it didn't remind him of the basilisk) and sounded somehow more relieved than hostile.

"_I have been waiting for you to arrive_."

Memory stirred, and he remembered.

"_Is it—is it you?"_ he whispered. "_You, the snake who helped me escape?"_ He could hear now another sound: the gentle scrape and slither of a snake moving over a wet flagstone floor.

"_Yes."_ The voice was very close now, so close that Harry felt that he could touch it._ "It's me."_

"_Why are you here? How did you get here?"_ Harry asked wonderingly, clambering to his feet. He lifted a hand hesitantly and felt a brush of smooth scales.

"_Through ways you will learn in a time not far in the future. But first, take off your shoes."_

"_What?"_ Harry hissed after a pause.

"_Take off your shoes, and your socks, or whatever those things are called." _

_"Why?"_

_"It would not be right otherwise_," the snake answered with what sounded like a shrug of the shoulders, though a distant part of Harry's mind reminded him that snakes didn't have any shoulders.

He bent down and unlaced his shoes. Balance came haltingly in the darkness, so he sat down as he pulled off one shoe, and then another. _The snake can't have been sent by Voldemort_, Harry thought as he climbed back to his feet. _It would have killed me already. _But what if the snake had been sent to lure him away into the bowels of the Chamber for some terrible ritual? _That's ridiculous_, he thought, too wearied by his misery even to feel fear. _Voldemort isn't foolish enough to sacrifice such a chance for another ritual._ But as he took a step forward, he paused.

"_You are sssafe here_," the snake murmured, as though sensing his hesitation. "_You are Hisss heir." _

Harry shook his head and searched for the right words. "_I—I don't understand._" _I'm just a miserable unwanted freak_, he thought. _Let me be._

There was a short pause, and Harry wondered if the snake heard his unspoken thoughts.

"_Follow me_."

The scraping sounds moved away, and Harry felt a twinge of panic.

"_Wait! Where are you going?"_

"_To a place that has been waiting for you for a very long time_," the snake replied, hissing from what sounded like far away.

Harry felt the echoes brushing him like so many butterflies, and he hesitated, unsure. His mind was too tired to think properly, but his feet seemed to make the decision for him as he took another step, and another. He stepped into a puddle and paused as the water lapped his feet.

"_Don't go so fast,"_ he hissed. The puddle ended, and another began. "_I can't see."_

"_There's nothing here to see_," came the hiss from somewhere far ahead._ "Just listen, and follow."_

Harry took a deep breath and, stretching his arms before him, slowly tottered to where he could hear soft, slithering sounds. The ground stayed flat and smooth, though not slippery. He remembered, distantly, there being rat skeletons the last time he had come, and the skin of the basilisk, but both were absent. He would have wondered, but he was preoccupied with listening to the elusive hissing and slithering of the snake ahead of him and placing one foot in front of the other.

"_Where are we going?" _Harry asked, moving more quickly. The echo of his voice seemed to rustle like the leaves of a forest in an autumn breeze.

"_You'll find out once we arrive_," the snake replied.

_Wonderfully informative_, Harry thought resignedly. The ground tilted downwards slightly. Harry wondered how far they had gone and how far they had left. Both felt infinite and eternal, like the darkness around him. Several times he felt like asking how much more there was, but he found it difficult to disturb the symphony of echoes.

"_We are almost there,"_ the snake hissed. The quality of the sound changed as well: the echoes didn't soar so much, and felt compacted, closer.

Harry followed the sound, and felt the ground dip down suddenly. He stumbled, nearly tripping, and stepped into an ankle-deep pool of icy water.

"_Keep going_."

"_What is this?"_ Harry asked, heart pounding. His foot was growing numb.

"_A place that has been waiting for you for the longest time_," the snake answered. "_Don't be afraid."_

"_How can I not be afraid?"_ Harry countered, shivering. The water stayed at the level of his ankles, and after wobbling a few steps forward, he continued more steadily. "_How much further?"_ he demanded through his chattering teeth.

"_Reach out your arm_."

Harry reached out his right hand, and felt it brush something. He took a step forward and lightly traced his trembling fingers over the smooth, moist surface of a pedestal. On it was a... goblet. He dipped a finger over the rim, and felt something cool and sharp and clear and— He withdrew his finger. It was like nothing he'd ever felt.

"_Drink."_

"_What is it?_"

"_The Water of Sight,_" the snake answered, and Harry's heart skipped a beat. "_Apparently, it lets you see things, though what they are, I do not know._"

"_What do you mean?"_ Harry asked through the pounding of his heart. He swallowed the rising hope back ruthlessly.

"_Drink it. The Water of Sight is one of His gifts to you, His heir_."

"_Who is this 'He'?"_ Harry demanded. The liquid in the goblet seemed to slosh around, though he couldn't be sure. He lifted his right foot (which was completely numb) and rubbed it against the side of his left leg, trying to force some life back into it. "_How am I His heir? I am—I am nobody."_

"_He is our teacher, Salazar Slytherin, and you are His heir."_

"_But I'm not; I'm only_—" He stopped, because he _wasn't_ Harry Potter, and had never been. He was Severus Snape's unwanted son. _Snape_, he thought, and he swallowed. If he had been Harry Potter, being Slytherin's heir would have been entirely out of the question; but he was a Snape, in blood if not in name, and that changed everything.

"_You are His heir, whether you believe it or want it or not_," the snake hissed. "_Drink_."

Harry lifted the goblet, noting that it was quite heavy, though he somehow felt that it was because the goblet was stone and unwieldy, and not because the liquid had any weight; but halfway to his mouth, he stopped, doubt settling into his mind.

"_But_—" He began, but the moment he opened his mouth, the liquid seethed, and suddenly he felt it darting to his lips, and before he could close his mouth, it was in his throat and was pouring like a clear waterfall down his throat and into his stomach. It plunged deeper, to the pit of his abdomen, and from there he felt a heat that was like ice, burning coldly like nothing he'd felt before; and suddenly, he saw, and heard, and…

…_was standing on the side of a hill. The mist had crept down from the hidden crests and rolled down into the silent valley. Far in the distance, he could hear the faint bleat of a lamb, sounding like the voice of a mourner as it echoed and died in the endless green hills... _

_Further down, near the placid stillness of the glassy lake, a crowd had gathered: milling about in colorful garbs were witches and wizards of all ages, their faces turned to the gray sky and gray lake, waiting and wondering. He was reminded from where he stood of a flock of birds. Ducks, maybe, or chickens. He smiled humorlessly. _

_The air changed. He looked up sharply, making out each space and breath in the white-glowing mist. _

Y Cerddwyr Gwynt!_" he heard the crowd cry anxiously. "_Y Curyll Gwyn, yr Helfarch Adwythig!

_It was a mere speck at first, but within moments, it had grown to the size of a man: a man with flowing white hair and flowing white robes, who strode through the air as easily and as swiftly as a hawk. _

_He felt the wind rising about him like his anger and hatred, and he was in the air, tasting the mist and feeling his hair stream behind him. Their eyes met: black against black, and the white-haired man was the first to turn away. _You may run and you may fly_, he thought fiercely, _but you cannot hide from me, _fy ngelyn marwol..._

_The image changed. The mist dissolved, and now he was in standing amongst the remains of a great castle. Stones had tumbled everywhere, and the only parts left standing were the hive-like dungeons and the skeleton that soared into the air and seemed to breathe as the sky shone through where walls had been. A moment later, with the force of a thunderclap, Harry realized that these weren't the remains of a castle, but a castle still being built..._

_He was lying down in the grass. A field of it, yellow and green, fading purple in the twilight, waving softly at the edges of his vision; but they were blurred: tears were in his eyes. He felt them running down the side of his face, pooling at his temple, and trickling into the soft dirt. He was in pain. A burning was at his wrists and the underside of his knees, like the throbbing of the pitiless sun, beating down and utterly relentless. It was too much to bear—the betrayal, the pain, the knowledge that he would die here, that his flesh would be stripped away by vultures, and that his bones would bleach and whiten under the shifting sky, and that his name and story and the great treachery wrought upon him would be untold, unavenged..._

He felt a terrible jarring, and then the world exploded into white. But he knew that he had returned to the conscious world because his feet were numb from the cold water and he had fallen, sprawling, onto the stone floor. His elbow ached from having smashed it against the ground, and a bruise was going to form on his shin—

He was frozen by a sudden, furious hissing. It moved towards him, quick as the green light of the Killing Curse, writhing with malice and hate and fury—

He rolled out of the way instinctively, and in a flurry of movement, he was far away from where he had begun— _What happened? _ he wondered, heart slamming into his chest as his mind reeled. _What's happening? _The world was drenched in light: bright, bright light, and all sounds became louder and louder, penetrating into his mind as though through a thick, misty veil. His own breathing rushed through his entire body; the splash of water rang with the clarity of a silver bell; the hissing sound crept to his bones and rattled and jarred them.

The hissing drew closer, sounding like a thousand snakes instead of just one, and Harry, his breath coming in frantic pants, somehow flickered out of the way. His mind whirled and awakened; he heard his pursuer veer towards him again, irrevocably, and he realized with a sickening flash that the thing chasing him was the snake that had helped him escape and led him to the Water of Sight.

"_Snake!"_ he hissed desperately, flinging himself out of the way. "_Snake!"_

The hissing hurtled towards him—

"_Snake!"_ he cried, rolling out of the way, but then he became aware of something slamming towards him— He darted aside and felt the heavy swish of a bludgeoning tail swipe his hair.

He lay in a heap, breathing hard and trying to control his terror. A small part of his mind wondered at how he was able to dart aside so quickly and so instinctively, but the thought was flooded by bewilderment at how the snake had become so huge, so intent upon killing him. _Why? _he pleaded in his mind; _why_—

He felt the snake approach, heard the hissing envelop him like a icy blanket. He rolled aside tiredly and felt the lashing tail slam through his robes—

For the last time, the hissing approached, hurtling towards him like the ground as he plummeted down in a dive. Instinct screamed at his aching muscles to dart aside, but he was exhausted in every way, and he only held up his hands before his face as the sound of hissing engulfed him— He felt the rush of air, the singing of the heavy tail as it cut off his last escape— Instinct welled up through him, uncontrollable, and he felt as though he were made of steel. He quivered, felt a strange chill simmer in his arms—

He flung out his hands. As the tail shattered the stone of the wall behind him and slammed into him, he pushed at the massive, scaly thing, and floated aside as though he were a wind-swept leaf...

He landed somehow, and then collapsed onto the ground. He waited for the snake to come and eat him, or squash him, or do whatever it planned to do, but strangely, the hissing sound was gone. A moment later, he realized that there was an utter silence besides his own heavy breathing. _What happened?_ he thought, noting that his vision was still engulfed in brilliance. _Why am I not..._ dead? eaten? Had the snake decided to leave? He searched for the right word, but it was too difficult, too tiring. His entire being was exhausted. He felt his limbs grow heavier, until they seemed to be made out of all the troubles in the world. His breathing slowed, and he felt his mind flitting away, hovering at the edge of consciousness. At last, he knew no more.

qpqpqp

"Remus will be here in a few days," Dumbledore said gravely. The bright light of the morning sunshine made his face look pale and deeply etched with lines of worry.

"Excellent," Snape snapped. He was pacing back and forth, his robes whipping around after every five strides.

Dumbledore sighed wearily. "Severus..."

"_What?_" the potions master demanded. His lips were contorted into a snarl, and a vein in his temple was twitching madly. He stared blankly at the headmaster for a short while before continuing his frenzied pacing.

"Severus, calm down," Dumbledore said at last.

"Calm down? _CALM DOWN?"_ He whirled around and his fingers twitched, as though itching to seize something and smash it into a thousand glittering bits. Instead, his lips curled into a sneer. "The Dark Lord has been silent for months. Your precious savior is missing. He is also blind as a bat and can barely walk! You ask me to calm down?"

"Yes, Severus, I do." The headmaster opened a drawer and took out a small piece of candy. "You must remain calm." He stood up and moved around his desk towards the potions master. "Lemon drop?"

"Go to hell, Albus," Snape growled, glaring out at the brilliant morning.

"Has Caius done anything?" Dumbledore asked gently.

Snape flinched. "No," he snapped, and moved away from the headmaster. "Of course not. When did you say the werewolf was arriving?"

"Severus." The headmaster's voice hardened. "You must tell me if he did anything at all to you. Caius is one of the most powerful and most ingenious wizards I know, and we need him to counter Voldemort, _but not at your expense_." He sighed and his voice gentled. "Please, Severus."

"You don't understand, Albus," Snape whispered, eyes locked with the headmaster's. He backed out of the sunlight and into the shadows of a corner. "You don't understand him, Albus. You might have known him for the better half of a century, but unless you've let yourself be tied down, without a wand, defenseless, alone in a room with him, you haven't known him at all." He looked away. His hands were shaking.

"I will talk to him again," Dumbledore offered after a pause.

"_No_," Snape shouted. "No," he repeated, more quietly this time. "It's not important. Find your precious savior, Albus." He paused, as though thinking. "Did he not tell you anything? You talked to him."

"Harry rarely tells me anything. But he did mention that if he were to leave, Rosemary Paean would be able to give me the answers."

"Rosemary Paean?" Snape asked sharply. "Wasn't she one of the ancient Sidhe healers?"

"Yes, and it is believed that her mentor was the great Morgan le Fay herself. She lived and died long before Hogwarts was founded. Her grave lies on one of the Orkney Isles."

Snape frowned. "Is there anything of her in Hogwarts?"

"Nothing besides a statue outside the hospital wing."

"Did you check it?"

Dumbledore hesitated for the slightest of moments. "Yes."

Snape glanced up sharply, having heard the hesitation. "What did you find?"

The headmaster slowly reached a hand into one of his pockets and took out something that might have been a lumpy piece of parchment folded many times over. He handed it to the potions master. "I will leave you alone to read it."

"Albus—" Snape began, but the headmaster had already stepped out of the office into one of the adjoining rooms.

The potions master looked down at the thing in his hands. It was clearly a piece of soaked and dried parchment that had been folded over and over, opened, and folded again. There seemed to be something in the middle. With careful, precise hands, he unfolded the parchment once, twice; at three times, a tiny silver chain spilled out over the neat handwriting. His hands trembled as he smoothed the parchment and fingered the little pendant, hanging on the fine chain. He looked down and began to read.

Some minutes later, the door opened and Albus Dumbledore entered quietly. He was preceded by a quick rustle of movement as Snape stiffened and crushed the letter and pendant in his left hand and tried to smooth his face into an expressionless mask.

"Albus," he said, his voice barely more than a croak.

"Severus," the headmaster murmured gently as he sat opposite to the potions master. "Some tea?"

There was a pause. "Yes."

"I know you'd rather have some brandy now, but I don't keep any in my office," the headmaster said lightly as he tapped the teapot with his wand.

Snape's eyes flared madly for a terrifying moment, but the madness subsided, and he swallowed, the Adam's apple working over the pale skin of his throat. "Tea will be fine," he said, voice still raspy and hoarse. His eyes were fixed unseeingly on the rising steam. "Did you know, Albus?"

"I suspected," the headmaster answered as he poured the beverage into two teacups. "But I did not know until I read Lily's letter."

The potions master flinched at the last two words. He reached out a quivering hand for the cup and wrapped his trembling fingers around it. With movements as slow and deliberate as an old, old man's, he lifted the cup to his mouth, sipped the scalding beverage, and set it down. He continued to stare at the steam rising from the tea.

"Do not take it so hard, Severus," Albus said gently.

"He's my son," the potions master whispered hoarsely, still staring straight ahead. "_HE'S MY BLOODY SON!_" He snatched up the teacup and threw it with all his strength. It hurtled into a delicate arrangement of silver contraptions, and the resulting shards of pottery and jumbled metal tumbled to the ground. Snape squeezed his hand into a fist, opened it, and curled it again. "He's. My. _Son_."

"He is," Albus agreed gently. "He is, Severus. More than ever, now."

"Yes," he hissed and looked straight into the eyes of the headmaster, "that brat was _my_ brat. _My_ son, all this time. He tried to tell me last night, too, but I—" Words died, and his throat worked as he swallowed. He looked away, in pain or shame or anger. "I told him no. I told him no, Albus. And all this time, I'd thought that after—after what he did to me, I would never have a child."

"Severus..."

"I told him no, Albus. I told him no." His voice was barely more than the rustle of the wind through dead autumn leaves. His pale hands shook. "I told him no. I told him no."

"Severus, my dear boy," Dumbledore murmured, reaching out a gnarled hand—

"But it's better this way, perhaps," Snape whispered. His eyes were once again staring unseeingly ahead, and his mouth had hardened. "Better this way."

qpqpqp

_Why's everything so bright?_ Harry thought and squinted. Then he realized that his eyes were still closed.

He sat up abruptly, and the memory of what had happened—of the fearsome hissing, his desperation as he scrambled away from his attacker, the rumbling as the heavy tail slammed onto the ground—came rushing back to him.

"So you have awakened."

Harry turned around in a movement so swift and sudden and instinctive, like the striking of a snake, that he surprised even himself. The voice echoed slightly, and Harry turned his face towards it, though all he could see was light: light flowing in every direction, as encompassing and deep as the darkness had been.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse, as though from screaming. "What happened? Where am I?"

"So many questions, _bachgen_, and _what_ am I would be a better way of putting it," the voice said. "I'm sure that, by now, you're aware of the effects of the Water of Sight."

Harry nodded warily. He somehow knew with the instinctive knowledge that told him how far his nose was from his hand where the voice came from: how far he was from the slight whisper of breathing, from where the dying echoes came. It was as though a new sense—something beyond hearing—had awakened from deep inside him, making him _achingly_ aware of things he hadn't been aware of even when he still had the ability to see.

"As for where we are, we're in _f'ystafell dirgel_, the Chamber of Secrets," the voice continued. "What happened was that... certain things that had been sleeping within you were forced awake."

His mind was still whirling as he tried to piece together everything that had happened. "Forced awake?"

"I will explain, _bachgen_. And as for what I am, or who I am—I am one who has been waiting to see you for a very long time."

_Waiting to see you for a very long time_... the phrase brought a brief flash of déjà vu as well as a cold trickle of fear, and Harry wondered if the person the voice belonged to knew why the snake had attacked him so ruthlessly. "That phrase is familiar to me," Harry said, when Slytherin didn't continue. "You're the person who I'm supposedly the heir of, aren't you? You're—" He was about to say Salazar Slytherin, but he hesitated. Slytherin was dead, and he still couldn't quite grasp the fantastical assertion that _he_ was the heir of Slytherin.

"Perhaps the best way of putting it would be that I am the memory of Salazar Slytherin. And you, _fy machgen_, are my heir."

"Your heir?" Harry licked his lips. This was absolutely absurd and surreal. He'd somehow gotten into the Chamber of Secrets, met the same snake that had aided him long ago, and then drunk this strange—_thing_ called the Water of Sight, and experienced inexplicable visions, and then nearly got killed by the same snake (except that the snake had suddenly become enormous), and now the shade of Salazar Slytherin was telling him that he was the heir to Slytherin. Somehow, it was this last that seemed the most impossible. "Then who is Tom Riddle?"

"A descendent of mine," the voice replied, and Harry could hear dark undercurrents in it. "But he is not my heir. He came from, perhaps, a nobler line than you, but he was not chosen. You were."

"But—"

"Don't try to wriggle out of it. It's the truth."

"But that's—but I..." He wrapped his arms around himself. There was no sound except for his breathing and that of Salazar Slytherin. "I am not suitable as an heir," he said haltingly.

"What makes you think so?"

"I know myself well enough," Harry snapped. He tightened his arms around himself and shivered, waiting to be struck. "I am..." _I am a freak_, he thought. _Nameless, unwanted. A freak_. He waited for the blow, and even wished for it. To feel a touch, as hate-filled and careless it might be, and covet it in some shadowy, anguished part of his soul.

"And the prophecy?"

_The prophecy. _"You don't understand!" he hissed, snarled, pleaded. "The prophecy only said that I _could_ defeat Voldemort, that I might have had the potential. But it never said that I would, that I'd have the strength to do so." Because he didn't: he felt beaten, broken, damaged beyond repair. An empty vessel, alone and miserable. He might've had the strength, a mere few months ago, but no longer. He knew it, too: knew deep inside that he couldn't do it, no matter what the rest of the world believed, no matter that the world's fate rested on his tired shoulders. And he hated—_loathed_—himself all the more for it. He didn't deserve any love or affection, no matter how much he longed for it. And there was nobody who would give it to him. Nobody. _I wish that snake had squashed me when it could have_, Harry thought morosely.

"You have been more hurt that I had seen," Salazar Slytherin said slowly. Harry was only vaguely listening to founder's voice. "Perhaps I did not believe it when I saw it. Perhaps I did not want to believe it." The voice seemed to drift further and further away. "We have very little time, but you cannot receive what I am to give you in this condition. Sleep is what you need. A little bit of sleep. It won't solve any problems, but it will help you. Sleep, _bachgen_, sleep... _cysgu_..."

qpqpqp

_The sky was white-hot iron and the sun was lost in its blank expanse. The heat beat down pitilessly, but he hardly felt it. Already the shadows of vultures were reeling about, gliding over the burnt remains of the cottage that had been his home all his life; the ashen well, the bare-branched tree, and his father nailed to the smoky bark. _

_His mother's sobs throbbed in his mind and woke a headache sharper than the blistering heat. He took a step forward. He could make out each rivulet of blood, flowing from the gaping hole in his father's bare chest, soaking the unrecognizable garment and trickling down into the dust. The blood was black. _

_His mother's sobs continued, anguished and gasping like mad. He bent down and covered his ears and examined the thing in the dust. It was black and spotted with dirt, and around it was splattered a large black puddle, like the egg-yolk when a chicken's egg had fallen and smashed into the ground. He reached out a hand, and then his mother's sobs stopped. _

_"Don't touch it!" she screamed, black eyes devoid of any light, and he jumped back instantly. He hid his left hand—the hand he had reached for the black thing—into the sleeve of his frayed robes, as though afraid that it would fall off, and it seemed to him that the texture and feel of his father's heart stayed on his hand, like the resin of a sticky pine-cone: cold and clammy, sticky and hot, dead and grainy, alive and restless, flowing through him_...

The first thing he realized when he awoke was that everything was still that blazing, brilliant white.

"I took the liberty of arranging a semblance of a bed for you," the voice—Salazar Slytherin—remarked. "I believe this particular mattress came from the third-year Hufflepuff dormitories."

Harry realized a moment later that he indeed was lying on something soft. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome. Are you hungry?"

"A bit," Harry admitted.

"We have éclairs. Not the healthiest food around, but delicious and filling all the same. The house-elves' ware has only improved since I was around."

Harry heard a slight _clink_ from somewhere in front of him, and he reached out a hand and found the platter in the blink of an eye. It was the same instinct that guided him that had told him how far away the faintest sounds were, and in what direction, and of what movement. _It's a good thing this place doesn't have too many sounds_, he reflected, savoring the taste of food.

"How was your nap?"

"Fine, thank you," Harry replied, reaching for a second éclair.

"I trust the mattresses haven't fallen in quality either?"

"I slept very well." He hesitated.

Slytherin, when he spoke, sounded knowing. "But you dreamed."

Harry nodded slowly. "It was a—very vivid dream." He was used to dreams during his long convalescence, but they had been delirious nightmares, nothing like the sharp, wild clarity of what haunted his mind mere minutes ago.

"Eat first. I will answer any questions you have afterwards."

Harry ate. He got sick of éclairs somewhere after his fifth one; he wondered how many éclairs Slytherin had supplied. He wondered if he should be feeling anything besides a bewildered feeling of disbelief and uncertainty. He pushed away the plate and crossed his legs, face tilted towards where the voice came from.

"Why is everything so bright?" Harry asked, after a long pause.

"It's a side effect of the Water of Sight, I think," Slytherin answered immediately. "The whiteness was always there before and after I had any... visions. For you, I think, it will always be there."

Harry nodded. He heard a slight scrape, and after wondering for an endless moment what it was, he realized—or found somewhere in his memory—that it was the sound of a cup being lifted. Then he heard the sound of pouring liquid, and then the _clink_ of the cup returning to the ground. "Water," Slytherin said, and Harry reached out and took the cup as though he could see exactly where it was.

"That's another thing of the Sight," Slytherin said. "For me, my sight grew keener, and I could see as keenly as an eagle. For you... every other sense, perhaps. Or maybe it awakened a new one. A sixth sense."

Harry nodded a second time. When he spoke again, the words came hesitantly, uncertainly: "You said—and you made me drink this Water of yours—that I am your Heir... but I don't understand. I can't—I don't see how—it's—"

"Ask me any question but that," Slytherin said sternly, and Harry subsided, suppressing a shiver. With his heightened awareness, he waited for the rush of air that would precede the harsh blow he was sure was to come. "It is for you to find out for yourself," Slytherin said at last, gently. "No matter what I say, you wouldn't believe me. Ask me anything else."

Harry nodded. It was some time before he found his voice. "The... what happened after I drank the Water of Sight. The snake attacking me... What was that? Did you..."

"It attacked you at my command. Do not worry for the snake, _bachgen_; you will be meeting him soon. I believe that you will soon experience a very strange thing: a snake's form of remorse and apology. But it was I who commanded it to attack you, and my purpose was to awaken things in you that had long lain sleeping." Slytherin's voice was still gentle, still soothing. "_Yr ysgafnder o fod_—the lightness of being—and _y lleidr distaw_—the silent thief."

Harry frowned. _What?_

"Did you not find that you could move much faster than before? That you could seemingly fly from place to place with movements so swift you made them without thinking? That, no matter how swiftly the snake struck, and how... well, blind, you were, you were never hit?"

"How... how did you know?" Harry breathed.

"That, _bachgen_, is _yr ysgafnder o bod_—the lightness of being. It has been sleeping within you all this time, but it awoke sometimes, such as when you were already in the air, soaring about in that broomstick game they have nowadays."

"Quidditch," Harry supplied.

"Yes, that. It would only awaken completely, though, when two factors came into being: the Water of Sight and mortal peril. And I forced both upon you to draw it out."

Harry nodded. "I see," he said, because Slytherin had paused for a long time. He realized a moment later the paradox of what he'd just said.

"Now, _y lleidr distaw_—the silent thief, is something else entirely," Slytherin continued. "It is the birthright of the line of Slytherin. Every wizard or witch born of my line had the potential, but only you can fulfill it, for only you, of all my descendents, have drunk the Water of Sight."

Harry opened his mouth, and Slytherin cut in quickly, "Don't ask why you're the heir. Anything but that."

"All right," Harry said, after shutting his mouth and opening it again. "But what is the Water of Sight exactly? And what exactly is this birthright, this silent thief?"

"Even I do not know exactly what the Water of Sight is, but your birthright..." Slytherin's voice gained a sing-song quality: "_Silver needle in the night, Glimmering a silent light: Without a thread, It floats ahead, Stealing souls along it flight._"

_What? Silver needle?_ Harry thought bewilderedly. _Stealing souls?_

"That was how you fended off the snake. In your desperation, and with the Water of Sight, you awoke your birthright; you—" The founder broke off. "It's much easier if you actually do it. Again."

"Do what?"

"Find your birthright. Like any form of magic, it obeys your will or your emotions. Emotions are best, for now. Your birthright responds best, I think, to fear. It might help if you tried remembering how it was like to be attacked by that snake."

"All right," Harry said reluctantly, still thoroughly confused. He summoned memories of the snake. He wasn't feeling especially frightened. _Perhaps it would be better if I thought of dementors_, he thought, and tried remembering the clamminess, the coldness, the despair... As though he had fallen over the edge of an abyss, his mind spiraled to thoughts of his father, Snape, and his friends, and his cold fate—

"_Bachgen!"_

Harry jerked, legs clamping together tightly, hands fluttering to his face instinctively, and as he did so, he felt—felt as though something was born from the tips of his fingers and vanished into the air.

Moments passed, and Harry settled his shaking hands in his lap. His pounding heart slowed.

"Well, that perhaps was not quite as expected, but you managed it, _bachgen_," Slytherin said gently. "Do you remember how it felt: something blooming at your fingers and disappearing like water dripping?"

Harry nodded wordlessly.

"Concentrate on that. Try to pull out that blooming without it vanishing."

Harry nodded again, and then remembered: how little sparks seemed to creep from his wrist, up his palms and fingers, to the very tips, where there was a faint tingling, faint at first, and then with a sudden surge—

"Hold it!"

He stopped, concentration shattered, and felt something lighter than a feather drop into the palm of his right hand. He picked it up with his left hand. It was a needle, fine as a strand of spider-silk, almost as light as the air. _Silver needle_, he thought.

"That is the silent thief, _y lleidr distaw. _Be careful, _bachgen_. It is no ordinary needle. It is made of the ice of venom."

"Venom?" Harry breathed, and held the needle all the more gingerly.

"Yes. The poison from the St. Caducus moss, while potent, does not manifest itself until two years later, and while it is difficult to cure, it is not impossible. Basilisk venom can cause death in a powerful witch or wizard within a minute, but while it is quick, it is not especially potent, and can easily be reversed by one who knows how. The breath of a Nundu, though even quicker than basilisk venom, is rather impotent, and the song of a heartless Sidhe, though irreversible, manifests itself over a period of decades.

"This poison, however, that you hold in your fingers, is different from all the rest. The lesser venoms attack the body directly, or magic that is intermingled with the body; the poison of these silver needles freezes the soul. It does not cause death, _bachgen_. It is like the dementor's kiss."

"I don't want it," said Harry, feeling sick. He wanted to throw the needle away. He wanted to be rid of this _y lleidr distaw_, this birthright; he didn't want to turn into a dementor. The thought chilled him: he rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together, as though expecting the skin to be wrinkled and dead.

"You have it, _bachgen_," Slytherin said, voice firm and gentle at the same time. "You cannot escape it. It is like saying that you are not a wizard, or that the prophecy does not point to you."

_The prophecy_, Harry thought, and felt a rush of despair. His fingers parted, and he felt the needle dropped. He heard no sound of it touching the ground.

"Their tendency to melt and vanish isn't much of a problem, really, seeing how you have a practically unlimited supply," Slytherin continued. "The beauty of this venom, though, is that while it naturally takes the form of silver needles, it needs no form at all. Even if you are merely touching someone, you can imbue that person with poison. How soon they lose their soul depends on how much venom you use."

"I don't want it," Harry repeated. He clenched his hands into fists and felt more freakish than ever. "I don't want to kill anyone, or make their soul freeze." _I don't want to be a murderer_, he thought. _I don't want to be a monster_. He rubbed his hands over his robes, as though to rid himself of the poison.

"It is your fate, _bachgen_," Slytherin murmured gently. "Now, ask me another question."

_How can I be your heir, even if I am your descendant?_ Harry thought, but let the question slip. He tossed about for what he might ask. There were so many questions he might ask, but many of them were so murky that he couldn't even put them in words. Others were too painful or terrible to even think about. "My... dreams, and visions. What do they mean?"

"Ah." He heard a thoughtful sigh. "Your visions. What did you see?"

"A lot of things," Harry answered after a pause as he tried to put his remembrances into words. The flashes of color and movements were dazzling, even in memory. "When I was sleeping, I dreamt that I was—someone else, and that there was a man. Nailed to a tree."

"And was there a gaping wound in his chest? And the blood was black?"

"Yes," Harry said, lips dry.

"You were in one of my memories. I suppose the Water of Sight saw it necessary that you lived it, and that I explain it to you." Slytherin was silent for a moment. "That man who was nailed to the tree was my father."

"Your father?" Harry breathed, horror-struck.

"Yes. I was... eight at the time, I think. The woman you must've seen was my mother. She died four years later. The winter had been very harsh."

"I am sorry," Harry said, because he did not know what else to say. _So he, too, is an orphan_, Harry thought, and felt a tug of compassion. "Who killed your father?"

"A man who was called _y Gwyn Curyll_, the White Hawk. Had he been more popular among the purebloods, the world today might know him as what he really was: a master mage who was to Merlin what the strongest wizard or witch was to a Muggle."

"Wow," Harry breathed wonderingly. "He was—that powerful?"

"Yes, he was," Slytherin murmured, the respect and awe coming clear in the founder's voice.

"But—why did he kill your father?"

"My father was not the nicest of men," Slytherin said slowly. Painfully. "I did not know that until much later, however. My mother never told me why he killed my father, and by the time she died, I'd forgotten that there needed to be a reason. I'd forgotten that _y Gwyn Curyll_ was human, too."

_Human_, Harry thought. The word kneaded his mind and tugged at it, like a little whirling breeze pulling insistently at leaves. _Is Voldemort human, too?_

"_Y Curyll Gwyn _became my mortal enemy when I was nine. But by the time I had reached manhood, he disappeared, mysteriously. Some said he died, and some said he was biding his time before embarking on another spree of murder." He paused. "I think it'll interest you to know that it was during that time that I founded Hogwarts."

"Then you must've been... quite young," Harry said, hesitantly. "But the statue in the Chamber..."

"Ah, that," Slytherin replied, sounding faintly, very faintly embarrassed. "That wasn't really me. It was what I—er—hoped to become, when I reached that age. That was actually my grand-master."

"Grand-master?"

"Yes. The one who taught my father and mother their magic." He paused, as though uncertain for a moment whether or not to say something. "Well anyway, I think you know what happened after that: I had a big quarrel with Godric and Rowena and Helga about Muggle-borns, and then I left."

"But why did you hate Muggle-borns so much?" He felt a shiver of cold: _what if he wants me to start murdering Muggle-borns left and right?_ He suppressed the thought. _I won't let him_, he thought with shaky determination. _I won't be his heir. I won't_.

"I hated them because I was taught to hate them," Slytherin said gently. "I was... wrong to hate them."

"Oh," Harry said, trying to digest this thought. He felt relief trickle through him. "That's... good."

"Yes, indeed," said Slytherin, sounding faintly amused. "After my mother died, I was taken in by a very old and very noble family, because of my father's connections to them. The noble and most ancient house of Black."

"_Black?"_

"Yes. I see you know about them. As you can imagine, I was bred to hate all Muggle-borns and those whose blood was less than pure. I believed what I was taught. I was young, then, and perhaps I'm just offering excuses for what I cannot undo, but losing the only one who cared for you and then losing your soul to vengeance leaves you quite crippled.

"They let me see only how pathetic and cruel and small-minded the Muggles were. They surrounded me, gave me everything I wanted and needed, made me feel important and needed. My life revolved around two things: the Blacks, and hunting the White Hawk. I even married and had children with one of the Black heiresses."

"You _did_?" Harry asked disbelievingly. "Am I—was that heiress my—"

"No, no," Slytherin said quickly. "Her children became shunted aside after I served my purpose."

"Served your purpose?"

"Yes," Slytherin said grimly. "When I was thirty or forty, a decade after I had left Hogwarts, half a decade after I had married into the Black family, the White Hawk returned. I, of course, joined the hunt for him. In the end, we managed to corner him somewhere in Wales, and I fought him." The founder paused, and Harry waited. "He could easily have defeated me, even though I was the strongest of wizards, a mage among men. But he did not defeat me. I defeated him. And did to him what he did to my father."

"You killed him," Harry breathed, chilled. "And..."

"Took his heart, yes." Slytherin's voice was hard, and grim, and Harry could understand how Slytherin may have done such a deed. "I found out too late that he was my uncle."

Harry could scarcely believe what he heard. "Your _uncle_?" For the briefest of moments, a flash of memory cloaked his mind, and he remembered the pain of his lacerated back, the hatred and malice as a hand smeared blood and phlegm over his face; but the moment passed, and what he saw instead was a man, white-haired and white-robed, lying spread-eagled on a grassy knoll...

"Yes, my mother's elder brother. He and my mother and my father were all disciples of my grand-master. My grand-master died before he could teach them everything he knew, but my uncle was the strongest of the three, and he was the oldest. He was called the White Hawk because of his hair, which was white as mist, and his robes..."

Images came: Harry remembered, with dawning realization, the meaning of the first vision that had gripped him when he had drunk the Water of Sight—that memory of silvery mist and sloping green hills, of a crowd that gathered before a still lake, of a white-haired man that walked in the air and met his eyes squarely...

"I saw him," Harry muttered, "in my visions."

"You did?" said Slytherin. "That is good, I think. In many ways—" He stopped. "You and I are like him in many ways. But I was blind to it, and did not realize sooner that he was my uncle, my mother's brother, and that there was a reason why he was a murderer.

"I will not justify murder. I will not justify anything of the sort—nothing in the world can be justified, because it's never that simple. My uncle killed the Muggle-killers: pure-blooded wizards and witches who hunted Muggles the way Muggles would hunt game. And my father was more than a Muggle-killer. Had he not married my mother, he would have died much sooner. But my mother loved him even when he was dead. She would always cry in her sleep and stare blank-eyed at his grave in the short time before she joined him."

_A Muggle-killer_, Harry thought._ Why did she love him?_ he wondered, not daring to ask it. _James Potter was a real prat, and yet my mother loved him, and married him_, he thought. As he pondered, he felt as though he were probing at the edge of a great, nebulous mystery, one that held the secrets of death and birth and the heat of life.

"After I killed the White Hawk, I became useless for the Black family," Slytherin continued, his voice becoming more and more somber. "I became a threat as I began to search for clues. You remember how I had touched my father's heart when he had died? From that I received what Water of Sight he had obtained, and then from my uncle, I gained more. I saw, and the Black family became scared as I uncovered one secret after another.

"So one night, they drugged me and severed the tendons of my arms and legs. I could not move my hands or feet: I could not walk, I could not defend myself, I could barely move. I was never closer to death."

The blades of grass from his first string of visions appeared in his mind, waving and changing colors as the sun sank behind the horizon, and he asked, "Why didn't they kill you?"

"My uncle forbade it. Before he died, he cast a spell on me, and that protected me from death. He must've seen what was to come, and saw his fate, and let it happen, just as I later saw what it was that he had done, and what part he had played in my own fate."

Harry nodded slowly. He wondered how it would feel to see your own death and let it come, unflinching.

"I would have died where I lay, but I was rescued." Here, Harry could distinctly hear the smile in the voice. "A Muggle rescued me. Her name was Enid, and she, _bachgen_, was your grandmother many greats back."

"Oh," Harry said, rather startled at the statement. "What was she like?"

"She had a temper that could burn all the hills to crisp, and nose not much smaller than mine. Or yours."

"Mine?" said Harry, feeling his nose.

"Yes, yours, _bachgen_. It is inescapable, this nose thing. It was a very pressing matter when I was with the Blacks, and there were even spells I used to shrink it. Of course, they had to be renewed once every month, and you had to be careful or your nose might fall off."

"I think I'll keep my nose the way it is," Harry said hesitantly, not sure if Slytherin was serious or not.

"Mm," the founder said. "Well, it certainly wasn't my nose that caught her. And I was quite useless at everything except for a bit of wandless magic and spitting."

"Spitting?"

"Yes, spitting," said Slytherin. "I was a champion spitter of berry pits. I could nail your eye standing seventy paces away. And it was rather hard to use the _y distaw lleidyr_ when I couldn't move my hands or feet. So I spat out little pellets. Not nearly as convenient, but I got used to it."

"Oh," said Harry, wondering how many souls Slytherin had frozen. "So... since this _y distaw lleidyr_ is something every one of your descendants has, wouldn't Voldemort have it as well if he ever drank the Water of Sight?"

"Ah, yes, but that is a very big if, _bachgen_. He does not even know that it exists. He may suspect, but like your prophecy, he does not _know_."

_The prophecy. The prophecy_. Thinking of it was going to drive him mad soon. "How do you know about the prophecy?"

"The Water of Sight showed me it. The Water, I understand, is usually not so willing to yield information as it did for me: it let me see your fate, my part in it, and the part Voldemort would play."

The words wove through Harry's mind uncomprehendingly for a moment. "You mean"—he whispered—"you _know?_ How it will end?"

"I do," Slytherin said softly, "but you do not. It isn't for you to know, _bachgen_; not yet. It is not for the pilgrim to see the shrine and altar at the start of his journey. But have faith, and be strong. And I have more gifts for you."

_I don't want any gifts_, Harry thought. _I just don't want this prophecy. I don't want this fate_. But he said nothing.

"I awoke in you the gifts of lightness and venom. I gave you the Water of Sight, and now I will gift you with knowledge. Follow me."

Harry got to his feet and hesitated, wondering which way to go: the echoes died, and Slytherin had fallen silent. _Which way is he going?_ Harry thought, and then, as he strained his ears, he heard—or felt, or became aware of—something entirely different: like the faint tingling he felt whenever he held his hand close to his forehead, or like the rushing sound of distant waters as waves washed a rocky shore, like smelling something that wasn't there but might have been some time ago, or would be there soon—

He realized that it was magic, and that it was slowly drawing farther and farther away. He followed it distractedly, still in awe of being able to _feel_ it: it was like hearing a beautiful new melody that had never been heard before, or discovering a new color. _Except I can't see_, he thought.

And so he continued his way, treading softly as he followed the elusive trail of magic.

qpqpqp

Hermione pushed back her bushy hair irritably. At times like this, she really wished it were straight, or at least very short, but straightening her hair took far too long, and she actually liked her hair long.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was impossible to concentrate on Arithmancy, no matter how fascinating the relation between the path of a wand and the area a spell would cover was. Just last night, after yelling at Ron (her heart clenched), she'd tossed and turned endlessly, still thinking of Harry and his—most unexpected revelation, and bizarre, puzzling behavior, and Ron's terrible reaction, and Harry's blindness, and Ron's anger, and Harry's strange aura of fear, and Ron's unforgiving—_hate_, and Harry, and Ron, and Harry, and Ron, and it had been _impossible_ to fall asleep, and she'd awakened bleary-eyed and very grumpy. The talk of breakfast that morning had been Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that, how he must've been totally insane to have attacked his best friend like that, the newspapers must've been correct. Even now, Hermione could feel her blood boiling; but then, the bomb had been dropped: Harry Potter was missing. The gossip exploded, and everyone was swearing up and down that Harry Potter had been expelled.

And Ron hadn't even said one word the entire morning.

Hermione turned her attention back to book before her. She stared blankly at the text a moment before trying to focus, but the words zoned in and out of her mind without meaning. She sighed in frustration and leaned back, glancing up instead at the darkened ceiling of the library.

_Everything's so changed_, she thought. Harry was missing, and Ron was being close-mouthed and stubborn, and all the teachers were as closed-mouthed as ever. And she didn't even have Ron to talk to, or take silent comfort in.

She shut her book decisively. It was no use working herself up. She had to follow her mother's advice, and _relax_. That was impossible, she knew, but perhaps she could knit some more things for the house-elves to work off some of her agitation.

She was about to leave when she saw Neville coming towards her. He was walking directly towards a bookshelf, and Hermione was surprised by how confident he seemed. Then he looked up and caught her gaze, and smiled. Hermione thought she caught a fleeting expression of relief in the smile.

"Hey, Hermione," he greeted.

"Hi, Neville," Hermione said, smiling weakly. "In the library already?"

"Yeah," said Neville ruefully. "Snape's assigned us with that horrible essay on the properties of that counter-Veritaserum potion. There's plenty of information on Veritaserum, but nothing on its counter-potion."

"Really? I found a really useful book—here, look." She lifted her Arithmancy book from off the pile in front of her and scanned the titles. "It's somewhere here, I'm sure of it..."

"Where's Ron gone off to?"

Hermione froze, and then continued to look at the titles. "He's... not very happy right now. Here's the book. Help me move these books off."

"Is it about Harry?" Neville asked quietly.

Hermione looked up sharply, but Neville kept his gaze on the stack of books. "Well—yes. It's about Harry." She watched Neville remove the last two books and finally reach the potions book.

"Harry seemed quite different, didn't he?" Neville remarked. He looked up and met Hermione's eyes, and then dropped his gaze, blushing. "I mean, I'm not even talking about him being—well, blind, and what he—um—well—did to you..." His voice had gotten really small. "But when I first saw him, I..."

"Didn't even recognize him?" Hermione suggested coolly.

"Don't get mad, Hermione," Neville said quickly, looking flustered. "But—" He chewed his lower lip and thumbed at a book in front of him. "Don't you think he looked—just a bit—like Snape?"

Hermione felt her stomach turn to ice. "A little bit, maybe," she replied vaguely.

Neville glanced up sharply, and this time, Hermione dropped her gaze. "I s'pose Ron's really upset about Harry disappearing like that," Neville commented.

"Oh he's"—Hermione reached for a book and randomly flipped through it—"quite fine, actually. We—Harry, Ron, and I—got into something of a fight, after... you know." She looked up to gauge Neville's reaction, and was surprised to see him gazing off into space. "Neville?"

He started, and then smiled weakly at her. "Sorry, I was just—remembering, you know." Hermione frowned. "It's just..." He took a deep breath. "You know how, at the end of last year, we went into the Ministry of Magic and everything?"

Hermione nodded, feeling puzzled what Neville was getting at and extremely curious as well. She'd never gotten the details of what had happened in the Department of Mysteries after she had passed out. All she knew was that Sirius had somehow died, and another big mystery had been introduced or revealed, and that was all.

"Well, after Harry's godfather—Sirius Black—went through the veil of death—"

"Veil of death?" Hermione gasped. Several heads turned.

"Yeah, I reckon that's what it's called," Neville said in hushed tones. Hermione leaned closer. "Well, Harry sort of went... berserk after that happened. And then he went after Bellatrix Lestrange." Hermione couldn't help glance up at Neville's face at the mention of Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville's eyes were still focused on the book in front of him, and he only paused for the slightest moment. "I went after him, and—I don't think he noticed me, following him—but I saw..." He glanced around and leaned closer; his eyes focused on Hermione's face. "I saw him cast the Cruciatus on Lestrange."

"_What?"_

"Shh!"

They looked around furtively. Madam Pince was eyeing them suspiciously, but nobody else seemed to notice their presence.

"_What_ did you say he did?" Hermione hissed.

"He cast the Cruciatus on Lestrange," Neville said hurriedly, "but it was only for a minute—less than that, even, maybe two seconds."

"Wait, you said a minute, and then—"

"It was two seconds. It didn't really work. And then Lestrange kept talking, and then I got hit by something from behind by a _Stupefy_—I think one of the Death-Eaters got loose and sneaked up on me—and then I ended up in the hospital wing."

Neville sat back into his chair and kept his gaze on Hermione's face for a few moments longer before looking back down at his book.

Hermione stared. And then she began slipping her books into her bag. "Excuse me," she murmured as she left the table, and nearly forgot to check out her books on her way out.

_Harry, cast the Cruciatus_? she thought. She felt as though she had been knocked over the head by a bludger: thoughts refused to form; her mind remained blank. _Harry_. She closed her eyes and shook her head sharply. _He was obviously distraught, and Neville said that it didn't really work_. She continued her way blindly down the corridors, remembering the frightening surge of magic as he lashed out at her just yesterday. _He was distraught. He couldn't really cast it_.

She didn't notice the blue eyes watching her leave.

qpqpqp

_So Dumbledore does not know where the Potter brat isss_.

_Do you think he may be in the Chamber, Massster? _

_Perhaps. But... if Dumbledore placed the blocking spell on the entrance, he must know that Potter entered. He would use a ruse to cover Potter's disappearance, but he would not use a ruse of this kind: he would create some explanation, to please the press, if anything. _

_What do we do now, Massster? _

_We wait. And we will find the secrets of this castle, and the secrets that I am heir to. It is good, though, that Potter's friends are turning against him in his absence. _

_Yessss. _

_The redhead boy is lossst: his thought-ssscars have reached his soul. And the Longbottom boy no longer has faith in the Potter brat. The bushy-haired mudblood will turn, soon, and when Potter emerges from wherever he is hiding, he will find himself alone. Alone_.


	10. The Final Gift

_A/N: Many thanks to Procyon Black for the Welsh!_

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Final Gift  
**

"Where are we?" asked Harry.

The air was still wet, but the ground under his feet felt rougher. _When Slytherin moves, he makes no sound_, Harry thought. _He can't walk anyhow, with his tendons severed. I wonder if he floats like a ghost_. He also wondered, fleetingly, what the memory of the founder looked like, or if he had any form at all, or if he was simply a trick of light, a slip of the mind.

"This is a place of knowledge, _bachgen_." His voice was different, too, Harry noted. Its echoes seemed to be pulled into something in front of them. "Here is the last of the three gifts I have prepared for you, _bachgen_: _y ffynnon o cymhendod_."

Harry waited, realizing fully for the first time that Slytherin must have waited an entire millennium—one-thousand years—just for him to be born. _Did he sleep through part of it?_ Harry wondered. _Or was he awake and waiting, counting the seconds and minutes and days and centuries, until I was born?_ The thought echoed: I. Me. Harry swallowed, feeling suddenly small and out-of-place, and nothing more than—

"Come here, _bachgen_," Slytherin instructed. Harry tottered forward. From somewhere close in front of him, he heard the scrape of something heavy and wet, ancient and wooden being moved off of stones situated at waist height; and suddenly, he felt as though he were engulfed in a bubble of magic: magic so strong that he had to remind himself to breathe...

"Closer." Harry took a hesitant step forward. He held his arms before him, and his fingertips came in contact with the cold, wet stone. He ran his hands swiftly over the thing before him, and realized that it was circular, about as wide as his armspan, with a hollow in the middle. It reminded him of a... of a well—a well with magic pouring out of it.

"What is it?" Harry asked. Magic was throbbing in the air, in his body: he could taste it, hear it, smell it, feel it on his skin, feel it swimming under his eyelids and coating his hair like sea-spray.

"_Y ffynnon o cymhendod_: the well of knowledge. Go on, _bachgen_. Open yourself to the magic. Just don't fall in."

Harry put both his hands on the side of the well and leaned over slightly. The flowing magic felt like a living breeze, stroking his face and tugging at his mind, whispering for him to grant it entrance. Something within him answered, and the brightness before his eyes began to throb. _The Water of Sight_, Harry realized, and the walls of his mind relaxed. Magic rushed in, and the intangible, tremulous thing within him flooded out to greet it—

Then it was over.

Harry swayed where he stood, wondering what had just happened. All he'd been aware of was a deafening thunderclap within him, and then nothing. He leaned back, hands leaving the rim of the well. His legs, he realized, felt weak.

"What... what happened?" he asked when Slytherin remained silent.

"You've received your last gift," the founder said, his voice soft and oddly sorrowful. "The gift of knowledge."

"But I—" Harry faltered. "I don't remember learning anything."

"The knowledge I have given you is tucked far away, _bachgen_. Think of the memory of your parents' deaths. Had you tried to summon them by yourself, you would never have remembered them; but in the vicinity of a dementor, they come to the surface."

"Oh," said Harry. "I understand." _Though I don't see how it would be useful. What's the good of learning something if I've practically forgotten it?_

"I don't think you really do, _bachgen_," said Slytherin. "Spells, charms, incantations, steps to make a potion—those are nothing to the mind; you might as well write them on a wall, or with chalk on a board, and nothing will come of it."

He paused. When he spoke the next words, his voice had dropped until it sounded like the ominous rolling of thunder. "But there is the other kind of magic: spells and rituals, enchantments and powers that are more terrifying than you can ever imagine. And it is not the mere knowledge of the steps, the procedure, the results; to truly _know_ is to feel a shadow of the hate, to grasp a shade of the agony and pain, to catch a glimpse of the spilled blood..."

The founder trailed off, and Harry felt the silence throbbing like the heartbeat of some vast, nameless monster. "That is the gift of knowledge, _bachgen_. It is in you now: there, but safely half-forgotten. Otherwise, your mind would be a ruin, a ravaged wasteland from all the power and glory and horror that is within you."

Harry swallowed. "Oh."

"So that's why it's in your subconscious," Slytherin said, tone changing abruptly. "It's also because you'd forget it all if it was in your consciousness. It would be like memorizing trivia you never really cared for. The enchantments work to keep the knowledge slumbering in your _sub_consciousness: there, just quiescent."

Harry nodded. "I understand, now."

"Mm," Slytherin murmured noncommittally. "This knowledge is a very precious gift, _bachgen_. Voldemort had fifty years of knowledge on you; now, the two of you are—almost equal."

_Almost equal_, Harry thought. It occurred to him for the very first time that, with Slytherin's gifts, he truly had—memory of the prophecy surged through his mind—'power that the Dark Lord knows not'. But the thought didn't please him particularly, nor give him any sense of hope. He still felt empty, empty and dead, like a rotten tree stump. The thought that he might challenge Voldemort was completely absurd, as though saying that he could swallow the sun in a heartbeat. How could he face Voldemort? He, who could not even defend himself against a Muggle? And even if he managed to face the Dark Lord, he would still remain a freak: unloved, unwanted, un—

"_Bachgen?" _

Harry jerked his head upwards. "Yes?"

There was a silence. "This was all I had originally intended, these three gifts," Slytheirn said slowly, "but I think I shall give you more one—ah. Two more, actually."

Harry frowned, and then heard, far away, a slight scraping noise. He stiffened.

"Do not be frightened," Slytherin said, amusement coloring his voice. "Someone else here has been waiting to see you."

The scraping sound approached, and within moments, Harry recognized it as the slithering of a snake. There was a splash of water, and then:

"_Massster_..."

Harry turned, half afraid: it was the same snake that had helped him—ages ago, it seemed—at the Dursleys, the same snake that had led him to the Water of Sight, and the same snake that had attacked him with frightening ferocity.

"_So, little one_," Slytherin hissed. "_What have you?"_

"_I have come for a very urgent reason, Lord Slytherin_," the snake answered, sounding indignant, but also worried, and angry. "_And I have come for the Young Master, so you can bugger off_."

Harry's jaw dropped.

"_I understand you may have been upset after my... request_," Slytherin said, sounding quite amused, "_but really, this is melodramatic to the extreme._"

"_A request, by definition, involves some kind of choice. You did not 'request' me do anything,"_ the snake replied sullenly. "_But I, on the other hand, do have a request." _The hissing changed, and Harry felt it addressing him._ "I hereby request to swear an oath of fealty to the Young Lord, to pledge my snake-life and snake-soul to him._" _Wait, what?_ Harry thought with the beginnings of panic._ Pledge his life and soul to _me "_I am the Young Master's vassal, and he, my liege; and I will serve him and follow him through all his hardships and joys_…" Harry opened his mouth to say something to stop this, but nothing came out, and the snake continued, the rolling hisses echoing in the chamber. "..._from now unto eternity; or until my Lord cast me away_."

The snake stopped.

"_It is a gift, _bachgen Slytherin said quietly. "_And a gift not lightly given._"

Harry swallowed. _What am I supposed to say?_ he wondered; and, hoping that he would not somehow offend the snake, said: "_I... accept._" There was a short pause. He added quickly:_ "Gladly. I mean—I'm honored to accept. Very—um—honored._" _I better shut up now_, he thought, feeling miserable. He couldn't help but feel that he'd made some kind of mistake.

"_I am glad_,_ too_," said the snake, and Harry could hear the unexpected candor in the words. "_I am sorry for having attacked like that, but the Master left me with little choice. I hope that my Lord will, in time, forgive me._" The snake sounded morose.

"_That's all right,_" Harry said, a bit awkwardly. He'd never dealt with remorseful snake before. "_I have. Forgiven you, I mean_." He opened his mouth to tell the snake to stop calling him by 'my Lord', or 'young Master', but Slytherin had already begun speaking.

"_Then everything is set,_" he said, sounding quite satisfied._ "All the elements for the Fidelis Animalis ritual have been met. You may proceed._"

Harry turned blankly to the founder. "_What?_"

"_What he means to say_," the snake said archly, "_is that he's been expecting—or even planning—this all along, and the next step in his brilliant plan involving his long-expected Heir is to perform the Fidelis Animalis ritual, so that the Young Master may see through my eyes._"

"_See?"_ Harry echoed, blankly.

"_Yes, see_," said Slytherin, gently. Then, as though launching into a lecture, he said: "Most snakes rely on their keen sense of smell to discern their environment. While snake vision is acute at short distances, it deteriorates rapidly at increasing distances." Harry closed his mouth, which had dropped open: it was creepy how similar Slytherin could sound like his fa—like Snape. "Furthermore, they have monocular vision, which is quite different from human stereoscopic vision" He paused. "Which is to say that the two images seen by the human eyes merge, giving a sense of depth, while for snakes, each image is separate. "

"_But I am different,"_ the snake interrupted archly. "_You are lecturing about normal snake-vision, are you not?" _

"_Yes, and yes, you are different,"_ Slytherin agreed solemnly. "_Salazar Slytherin was more than a magician. He was a snake-breeder as well_."

_Snake-breeder?_ Harry thought blankly, and then: _basilisk_.

"Ah, I believe you met my basilisk, _bachgen_,Slytherin continued. "She was one of my earlier—um—trials. Left in here for the wrong purpose. But the others were more—successful. Have you heard of the ram-headed snake of Cernunnos? Or the Kundalini serpent?

"Er… no," replied Harry. "I haven't."

"Ah. Then the vipers of Medusa, or the snakes of Hermes's caduceus? Or the cobra of the Uraeus? Or the heavenly nagas, or the Midgard serpent, or the eternal ouroborus?

"I've never heard of any of those," Harry replied, feeling very stupid.

Slytherin paused. "Ah yes," he muttered. "You were sorted into Godric's house. It was Godric's hat, and Godric was an idiot. How could these little children know what they wanted when they were only eleven?"

_What they wanted?_ Harry thought, confused.

"One of his so-called secrets," Slytherin clarified, snorting. "It really isn't the 'intrinsic qualities' within a witch or wizard that tells the Hat where they ought to go, but subconscious desires." He shook his head. "Helga I can understand, but I don't see how Rowena could have been taken in by such a silly trick."

"But I—but the Hat told me I would do well in Slytherin, but I—um—" He paused, wondering how he might state it diplomatically. "Opted for Gryffindor. Because of… certain stigmas."

"Well, it's not exactly—unexpected," said Slytherin in a carefully neutral voice, after a pause in which Harry wished he could disappear. "The line between my house and Godric's is very faint, and only fools believe they can categorize humans clearly." He took a deep breath. "In any case, had you been sorted into my house, you would have learned of the different magical snakes from various… hints."

_"Pillowcases, you mean_," the snake hissed.

"Yes, pillowcases," Slytherin agreed. _Pillowcases?_ thought Harry, utterly baffled. "Parseltongue lets you not only speak and understand the ancient tongue, but also read and write it. Embroidered on the pillowcases was the knowledge I gathered of snakes and snake-breeding, though the knowledge was then incomplete."

"Oh," said Harry, trying to imagine Slytherin embroidering pillowcases.

"But you have the knowledge now, somewhere in your head," Slytherin said. "What snake do you think we have here, _bachgen_?"

"Ah…" said Harry, completely clueless. He heard a soft scrape of scales, and knew the snake was approaching. Something flittered over the palms of his hands—a snake's tongue; and then he felt the snake's cool belly over his wrist. The snake felt light as a shadow as it reared up and coiled over his two outstretched arms. The knowledge appeared in the front of his mind like a bubble rising from the sandy bottoms of a deep pool.

"One of the _anguis_," Harry whispered.

"Yes," Slytherin said gravely as Harry stroked the snake's head. The snake hissed softly in contentment. "Born from the black egg soaked in the tears of a phoenix, its bite can cure or kill. It is an independent spirit that can never be fettered, but its loyalties knows no bounds, especially to its Lord."

_Me_, Harry thought, feeling the snake slide over his forearms and then slither to the ground.

"Are you ready for the _Fidelis Animalis_?" asked Slytherin.

Harry let the snake slip from his fingers and onto the wet ground. The name of the spell brought up sounds and smells and flashes of images buried deep inside his mind: a tunnel of silvery light, and plunging into an open, trusting mind…

_The snake would really be opening its mind and soul to me_, Harry thought, feeling his stomach turn to lead. _I would be having complete control, like Voldemort over Nagini_. He felt sick. _I don't want to be anybody's master_, he thought. _I don't want to be like Voldemort._ _I just want—_ He swallowed, and remembered that cold, brutal voice telling him: _no_.

_It doesn't matter what you want_, he thought with harsh certainty. It didn't matter that he just wanted a family, that he yearned for there to be someone who loved him and whom he could love; it didn't matter that he didn't want these gifts, his inheritance. It didn't matter at all. Because he would never have a family. When did a freak's desires ever matter in the patterns of the world? It was his fate.

_But on the other hand_, he thought, after a pause, _I'll be able to _see. His heart quickened at the unfamiliar notion.

"I am," said Harry quietly. He shivered. The hope for sight that had died so silently that he had almost forgotten how it had felt like was born anew with an almost feverish intensity. _Colors_, he thought. _And shapes, and faces_. _I'll be able to see_.

"Good," said Slytherin. The snake slipped up Harry's arm. "The required elements are already in place: an oath of fealty, mutual acceptance, and plenty of magic. Try extending your mind through your fingers and into the snake."

The brightness before him seemed to ripple. Harry took a deep breath and let it drain out slowly. There was an odd tingling at his fingertips, and suddenly, the whiteness darkened and dissolved, and he had the strange urge to squint—he felt as though he were looking through a mad tunneling kaleidoscope of colors…

Black. Things so dark it hurt his mind, searing as the white light had been. Shapes he could not decipher, something pale in front— His breath caught. He was seeing things. He was _seeing_ things. It was strangely anticlimactic and, at the same time, as though a world he'd forgotten had opened—literally—before his eyes. _I didn't know I'd already forgotten what it's like to see_, he thought dazedly, and continued to stare, and…

…realized that he was staring at a face. He stared at it blankly for another long moment before he began registering that it was a lined and noble with a large, aquiline nose and sharp, black eyes: _eyes like my fa—like Snape's_, Harry thought suddenly. _Slytherin_. It was like looking at a picture. What he saw through the snake's eyes stayed stationary, but he could move his mind down—taking in every little detail—down to the hair, gray and streaked with black and white and falling past the shoulders. The arms and hands were hidden in large gray sleeves, and Harry noticed that the bottom of the figure's robe just barely brushed the ground.

_He's floating, like some kind of ghost_, Harry realized. On second glance, Harry realized that the figure before him was also not quite solid: there was translucence along the edges, especially around the robes. His mind's eye moved up again, and then he found himself looking again at the face, and at the smile that he had missed: a smile that was sad and gentle and proud all at once.

"_Bachgen_," Slytherin murmured softly, proudly, and Harry felt his heart clench. _Bachgen_. Son. He felt his concentration ebb. The milky white crept in, and he felt a moment of mindless panic, but it was like water rushing down a drain: the colors washed away, and all that he was left with was the memory of that sad, proud smile.

"It is time, now," said Slytherin softly. Harry felt the snake wind up his arm and over his left shoulder. "It is time for my heir to return."

Harry's insides instantly froze. Snape's voice once again echoed in his mind: _no_… And, along with the surge of anguish and fear and despair and shame came Ron—spittle flying from his mouth, voice cracking with hate and anger…

"There is much to do, _bachgen_. Voldemort is waiting. The world is waiting."

His insides were frozen. _It's your fate_, he thought severely, trying to calm himself. _And you've got these gifts, haven't you?_ But no matter what he told himself, all he could feel was the agony and the shame, and the overwhelming urge to curl into a tiny ball as the voices assailed him: Ron's, snarling in hatred and fury; Snape's, cold and with deadening finality; and Vernon's—whispering to him how he was a worthless freak…

"Harry."

Harry looked up, startled. Slytherin had never addressed him by his given name. He waited. A moment later, he felt as though something soft, like a wandering breeze, of the brush of a falling leaf, had touched his face. He shivered.

"I give you one last gift," said Slytherin, and he sounded strangely far away. "It is the gift of time; and time you shall have to heal what wounds you may heal." There was a pause. "Farewell, _bachgen_. May fortune smile upon you."

Silence fell.

"_Well, the sneaky old coot_," hissed the snake.

"_What?"_ Harry asked, and frowned. There was an odd note in the snake's voice. He also felt—different. The nuances in the air seemed to have frozen, and he felt that they were somehow in a much smaller room.

"_His last gift, or time, as he said, was to put you in a painting_," said the snake with what sounded like a little snort. It was hard to snort in Parseltongue. "_And that is where we are now, my Lord_."

"_What?"_ Harry exclaimed. "_In a painting? How can—"_ He paused. "_Can I—er—see?" _

"_Of course, my Lord_," the snake murmured.

"_Please_," Harry said uncomfortably. "_Don't call me Lord, or Master. Just call me Harry_."

"_May I call you arglwydd?" _

_"Um, sure_," said Harry, wondering what the word meant. Before the knowledge could make itself known, the white faded again, and he found himself staring from a rather great height at the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. The adjustment to seeing came must more easily this time. _So we _are_ in a painting, and one pretty high up on one of the walls_, he thought. He could make out little in the inky darkness besides the glistening of the wet ground and a black thing that seemed to be the well, but…

"_Where is he?"_ Harry asked, moving his attention over the entirety of what he could see through the wide scope of the snake's eyes.

"_Lord Slytherin?"_ murmured the snake. "_Gone_."

"_Gone?"_ Harry echoed blankly. The frame of view shifted slightly. "_I—I don't understand_."

"_He gave you all the gifts he had to give,_" the snake replied without emotion. "_He finished his task. He is no more. After all, what you met was only a memory._"

It took Harry a few moments for the information to sink in. "_You mean—he's just—gone?"_

"_Gone, as all remembrances fade_," the snake replied.

_Gone_. Harry swallowed. It was strange: he had only known Slytherin for a day at most—and it was only a memory, he reminded himself, not the real person; but already it felt much more. He remembered with searing clarity the sad, proud smile the founder had given him.

"_So where are we now?"_ Harry asked.

"_Within a painting, like I said_," the snake replied.

_A painting?_ thought Harry.

The frame of vision turned sideways. The view of the chamber, with its vast shades of darkness and glistening stone, gave way to what Harry presumed to be the frame. The snake turned its head more, and Harry found himself staring at a scene of the moments before dawn. There was a pinkish tinge along the dark horizon, and a lone tree curled up from the middle, its gnarled branches barely brushed with light.

"_Lord Slytherin was an artist as well_," the snake hissed. "_Even when he lost use of his hands and feet, he painted._"

"_It's beautiful_," Harry murmured.

"_Yes, it is,_" the snake replied. The frame of vision dipped down suddenly as the snake slipped to the ground, and Harry froze as the world reeled. "_This way_," the snake hissed, turning its head with dizzying speed.

"_You move your head very fast_," Harry said in a pained voice. He let the colors dissolve until everything was blurred with white, and then let out a breath, feeling the vertigo pass, though he also felt a pang of loss. It was one thing to look down at the ground while diving on a broomstick, but dropping without control to the ground—with all its dizzying detail—was another.

"_I will attempt to refrain from doing so in the future, arglwyd,_" hissed the snake. _"Follow me_." Harry was again almost painfully aware of how far away the snake was, of how the ground felt from the sound of scales of rock—_side effects of the Water of Sight_, Harry thought.

"_Where are we heading?"_ Harry asked. "_And why did he put us inside a painting?"_

"_It was his gift to you of time_," the snake answered, sounding strangely far away.

"_The gift of time? I—still don't quite understand_," he replied, distracted by the buzzing of magic that fell like a shimmering waterfall between him and the snake. He took a large step forward, and then another, and—

He felt himself going through veil of magic. The air was different. The sounds were different. He realized suddenly that they were inside a different painting.

"_It's quite simple, really_," the snake replied, and his voice echoed slightly in the new painting. "_Lord Slytherin simply hid you in a different world: this world, the world of paintings. Here you can stay without being observed by the world of living._"

"_But won't they recognize me?"_

"_You have—er—changed, arglwyd_," the snake hissed, sounding faintly amused. "_I can show you. I promise not to move my head overmuch_."

"_Thanks_," Harry muttered as he reached out with his mind, wondering how, exactly, had he changed…

The shining blank whiteness before him dissolved and he found himself staring up at a chin and—protruding from that—a nose. The frame of view shifted, and Harry was aware of the snake lifting its head (slowly) until they were face to face.

"_I_… _you're right_," said Harry, watching his own mouth open and close and form the sounds of Parseltongue. "_I have. Changed, I mean_."

His nose was big, like that of his father and of Slytherin, but while theirs could be considered Roman or noble or aquiline, his nose was just big. And knobby. His face was drawn and pale and sallow, showing high cheekbones that shadowed hollow cheeks. His hair had spilled onto his face, falling down to his clavicle like a lank, greasy curtain. Experimentally, he opened his eyes, and saw two blank green orbs staring back at him.

There was no trace of Harry Potter in that face. Not even in the brilliantly green eyes, which were more like marbles than organs of sight.

"_If you have looked your fill, I would like to introduce you to my brethren_," remarked the snake.

_Brethen?_ thought Harry. "_Sure_."

The frame of view turned, and Harry found himself staring at a scene stranger than any he'd ever seen. In front of him was a great tree, with a thick trunk and dark green foliage, and weighing down heavily from the arching branches like ripe fruits were eggs—snake eggs, of all shapes and sizes and colors and textures. One seemed to be bathed in a fluid; another was translucent, and Harry could see the coils of a tiny black serpent within; yet another seemed to shimmer in a light breeze that only it could feel.

"_These_," murmured the snake, "_are my brethren. When we die, we of the immortal souls come here to be reborn_."

"_Reborn from eggs in a painting?_" Harry asked, somewhat disbelievingly. He'd never thought something like this was possible. "_But then—why doesn't someone just draw pictures of a lot of pregnant women, or something, and be immortal that way?"_

"_It doesn't work that way, arglwyd_," said the snake, sounding both supercilious and amused at the same time. "_Humans lack immortal souls—or at least, souls that are immortal on this earth. They pass, and leave behind a body to rot and memory to fade. Our souls—snake-souls—are bound and cannot leave to wherever humans' go. Our bodies, simple flesh and bone, can easily be knitted with the right enchantments."_ He paused. _"You have experienced such enchantments, arglwyd, a crude example as it was. From flesh, blood, and bone, darkness was reborn_."

_Voldemort_, thought Harry with a shiver.

"_But then again, not all snake-souls are bound as we are_," the snake said thoughtfully. "_Only our souls, that Slytherin awakened, are eternal_."

Harry frowned, considering the implications of the statement. "_You mean—Slytherin himself awoke your soul?"_ he asked, wondering if the snake in his hands was actually a thousand years old.

"_Yes, but not my body, nor my mind_," said the snake. It lowered its head lazily and Harry let the colors dissolve before vertigo could assail him. Whiteness once again hung before his eyes. "_Come, then. The Chamber of Secrets may be Lord Slytherin's cozy little room, but I find it a bit dank."_

"_Where are we going?"_ Harry asked, following the slight scraping sound of scales as he went through another veil of magic.

"_It is time you met the denizens of Hogwarts_," the snake said. "_Non-living denizens, at any rate_. _Here is the last painting before we leave the Chamber. Are you ready?_"

_No_, thought Harry. "_Yes_," he replied.

"_Then let us go_," said the snake. Harry followed. This time, as he stepped through the crackling veil of magic, he felt a moment of great movement, as though he were hurtling through time and space—_like a portkey_, Harry thought just as the moment passed, and he realized that he was standing, barefoot, on wet, spongy grass.

Harry took in a deep breath. They were obviously somewhere outdoors. The air tasted different—fresh and crisp—and the grass was cool under his feet…

He felt the crackling of magic, and knew, from that, and from the sound of hooves and metal against metal, that someone was approaching.

"Halt!" came a loud voice and a jarring clank. There was the sound of a pony snorting. "What have we here?"

Harry turned, incredulous, as the memory arose. "Sir Cadagon?"

More clanking. "How do you know my name, shivering knave? Dare you stand up to me in a fight? A _duel_—ah!

There was a clanking so loud that Harry winced—the knight must have swung very hard and fallen off his pony.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked cautiously, stepping back. More metal against metal, this time over the sound of heavy panting.

"Of course," said Sir Cadagon. Harry could hear the knight grunting the pony making disapproving sounds as Sir Cadagon climbed back onto his steed. "Now." He cleared his throat. "Thou currish, beef-witted pigeon egg! O! puny, boil-brained canker-blossom! I challenge you to a duel—nay, a duel of honor, to the death!"

Harry suddenly felt the rush of air hurtling towards him—the knight charging—and out of instinct, he jumped. Wind rushed through his hair, and he suddenly realized that he should have landed by now…

…He did land, jarringly, and felt leaves brushing his face and twigs catching his hair. _I'm in a tree_, Harry realized, his mind whirling from the sudden lightness of the jump and from disbelief. _How did I suddenly jump into a tree—_? And then he remembered Slytherin's gift of the lightness of being. He reached out to grab a rough branch. He didn't know how far down the ground was, and he didn't want to find out by falling, even if he could glide down like a swallow.

"Come back down," Sir Cadagon roared, "thou churlish, toad-spotted"—a magnificent crash—"ARGH! A snake! A SNAKE!" There was an earsplitting clanking of metal—and then a terrified pony whinnied.

"_Snake?"_ Harry hissed as loudly as he could. "_Snake? Don't—don't hurt them_." _Can paintings even be hurt?_ he wondered, but decided that he did not want to find out. "_Snake?"_

He nearly fell out of the tree when he heard the voice, whispering next to his ear, "_I only frightened them._"

"_That's—er—good_," he said.

The clanking stopped and Harry could hear the knight pant for all he was worth. _I don't think he knows that the snake is right above his head_, Harry thought. "_May I play go forth and frighten them some more?"_ the snake asked politely.

"_Er_… _I'm not sure if that's such a good idea_," said Harry.

"Are you laughing at me?" Sir Cadagon demanded a moment later. "Puny, beef-witted canker-blossom, come down and fight like a man!"

There was more clanking, and suddenly Harry was aware of another buzz of magic.

"Really," came a sneering voice that was very familiar. "Who are you shouting at now, Cadagon?"

For a wrenching moment, Harry was sure the voice—silky and cold, drawling like a lazy snake—somehow belonged to his f—to Snape; but after the moment of uncertain hope or of anxious dread passed, he realized, not without a tinge of disappointment and relief, that it was Phineas Nigellus.

"A dirty knave, most cowardly and pusillanimous!" Cadagon replied, panting. "And—Phineas? Is that you? Why are you here, good sir?"

The former headmaster gave a very put-upon sigh. "Dumbledore asked me to go around and ask the portraits if they've seen or heard anything about a certain brat of his. Adolescents. This one's called Harry Potter"—Harry's heart skipped a beat—"and unfortunately, he's of some importance."

"Potter? Harry? A scoundrel?" growled Cadagon. "I'll skin 'em! Hack them to pieces, after dueling with those churlish, boil-brained—"

"You're repeating yourself," Phineas said lazily. "And who're you shouting at?"

"That dishonorable pigeon egg hiding in that tree!"

Harry held his breath as the former headmaster approached.

"Ah," Phineas said sneeringly. "An _adolescent_." He pronounced the word slowly and distastefully, drawing out each syllable with disgust. "Your nose looks a bit familiar, but I don't recall having seen you," the former headmaster mused. _He doesn't recognize me_, thought Harry. _He does not know_. The feeling of relief shattered when Phineas shouted, "Get down from that tree at once!"

Harry found himself obeying automatically: he couldn't help remembering Vernon roaring at him and Snape's harsh tones, cutting through him even in memory.

"No respect for their elders nowadays," Phineas muttered. "Sitting in a tree and with his eyes closed while I'm talking."

"True, very true," put in Cadagon.

"I haven't seen you around, boy," sneered Phineas. Harry was aware of the former headmaster slowly moving around him, like some kind of shadowy interrogator. He swallowed. "Speak! Are you a new portrait, or a strange thing that had remained hidden, and why do you not open your…"

"SNAKE!" Cadagon shouted. Harry winced at the loud clanking of metal. "'Tis a snake, the venomous emblem of the knavish House of Slytherin!"

_Where's the snake?_ Harry wondered and tried to spread out his senses, to detect any faint hissing or slide of scales through grass—

"Knavish, Cadagon?" Phineas snapped. "_Knavish_?"

"_Snake?"_ Harry hissed, bending slightly. "_Are you there? Come back_."

"_Yes, anglwyd_," the snake murmured dutifully, and Harry could hear each grass-blade rustling as the snake moved through the grass. He soon felt the smooth scales curl around his ankle. And then he realized that a sudden silence that had fallen like a dull axe-blade.

"Interesting," Phineas breathed. "A _Parseltongue_. And one with the features of a noble line."

"A knave," said Cadagon, sounding frightened. "Churlish, beef-witted—"

"Shush!" Phineas snapped. "What is your name, boy?"

Harry opened his mouth. "Harry," he said, hesitantly.

A pause. "What kind of common name is that?" the former headmaster spat. "You are lying. Adolescents, always lying and thinking their elders cannot catch them at it…"

The snake hissed threateningly. "_Shh_," Harry whispered as he turned the question over and over in his mind—what _was_ his name? It wasn't—couldn't be—Harry Potter. Nor was it Harry Snape. _Am I just Harry, then?_ he wondered, and abruptly felt loneliness surge up like a cold sea-wave and envelop him.

"Come along, then," Phineas said briskly, whirling around with a snap of his cloak, which reminded Harry sharply of Snape. "Hurry up!"

Harry hesitated, but the former headmaster's sharp tone, an echo of all the harsh voices teeming in his memory, seemed to trample his resistance. Cautiously, he pushed, and slipped off the tree. He was falling, and his mind was caught up in a moment of panic—he was going to hit the ground and break a bone; he couldn't tell which way was up or which way was down—

He landed as lightly as a feature. His heart was pounding. "_Snake?"_ he hissed.

"_I am here_," replied the snake.

Harry moved to follow the crackle of magic that heralded Phineas's departure from that portrait. Harry could hear, behind him, the snake slithering through grass, and Cadagon muttering to himself; and then he felt a crackle of magic—

"Eh?" a boisterous voice demanded. In the background was the sound of madly chirping birds and the clinking of china. "What's this, Phineas?"

"A miscreant," the former headmaster sneered.

"Oh, he looks so _thin_," said a concerned voice that Harry recognized as Violet, the portrait that used to visit the Fat Lady. "And is it too bright? His eyes are closed. Where ever did you find him?"

Harry backed up a step: the sudden onrush of noise and voices made a claustrophobic din in his head.

"I didn't," Phineas replied dryly. "It was Cadagon."

"Oh, poor thing," tutted Violet, and Harry wasn't sure if it was he or Cadagon she thought was poor.

"Hello!" the boisterous voice shouted. "Would you like a spot of tea, lad?"

Harry shook his head. The voice was very loud. "No—no, sir."

"So polite. Where are you taking him, Phineas?" Violet asked.

"Where do you _think_ I'm taking him," Phineas countered in a bored voice. "To see Dumbledore, of course."

Harry felt his blood freeze in his veins. _To see Dumbledore—_ He couldn't! Not yet, not now, because if Dumbledore saw him like this, he'd surely summon Snape, and then— His palms started getting sweaty, and he backed up another step.

"Come on, boy," Phineas drawled.

Harry tensed like a mouse in front of a prowling cat.

"Boy!" Phineas snapped, and Harry winced.

"No," he croaked and shook his head, backing up a step. "I can't." He lowered his head. He was conscious of his fear and knew it was a shameful kind of fear, irrational and vague, and he hated it, as hated himself for having it, but it was there, just like everything else, and he found himself balking under it. _Please, no_, he pleaded. _I don't want to go. I can't_.

"You _can't?"_ sneered Phineas after a silence. "You _can_ and you _will_, boy, or I'll—"

"Phineas!" Violet gasped. "_Look_ at him—don't _frighten_ him—"

"Eh, not the way to handle 'em," the boisterous voice cut in, "but Dumbledore's a kind man if there ever was one."

Harry swallowed, feeling the shame of his fear welling up even as the terror mounted. He took another step back, and considered falling through the crackle of magic and into a different painting—

"A SNAKE!" shouted the boisterous-voiced man in a panicky tone. "A SNAKE! A SNAKE!"

"Oh _Merlin_," muttered Phineas.

Violet shrieked and shrieked again.

Harry suppressed the urge to hide. "_Snake!"_ Harry hissed under the turmoil. "_Snake?"_

"_Really_," Phineas growled. "Boy, pick up your snake, and come here—now!"

A moment later, Harry knew—perhaps from the swift footsteps, or movements in the air that only he could feel—that the former headmaster was advancing on him. He froze: for a moment paralyzed where he stood. And then, acting reflexively, he darted backwards, through the crackling veil of magic—

"You again, knave!" shouted Sir Cadagon.

—and kicked lightly off the ground, flying through yet through another curtain.

His heart was pounding. He stopped, wondering where he was: it was very quiet, and the wind moved in little swirls, and Harry was about to relax when he heard a deep, deep growl. His mind flew through memories, and he remembered a painting of the giant wolf Fenrir, which had gleaming white teeth and flaming red eyes—

He jumped again, flitting across the ground like a swallow's shadow. _I wonder where the snake is?_ he thought briefly before he burst through yet another veil of magic.

He paused again. He could hear, very faintly, a babble of voices and a ponderous growling from the portrait he had just left. But there were other noises all around him: a rustling singing sound. He stilled to listen to it. He knew he had heard before, but he didn't know where. It was like the murmuring of the sea, but it was a sound from the air and the wind and…

There was a crackling of magic behind him, and a loud clanking of metal. "Drat! It got me in my leg!" cried Sir Cadagon. There was another crackling of magic, and Harry heard a babble of voice rising—

"Did the wolf or that horrible snake bite you?"

"Really, to be terrified of a snake, the revered emblem of the noble house of Slytherin—"

"A knavish house, rotten to its churlish core!"

"Why you—"

"Ah, shut up, both of you. Say, where's the lad?"

A flourish of clanking metal. "Over there! Puny, toad-spotted canker-blossom, you shall never escape me!"

Harry backed a step as the frightening sound of clanking metal approached. _Where is the snake when I need him?_ Harry thought desperately as he turned around and darted away towards the strange rustling sound that came from the air—

"He's heading for the pines!" Sir Cadagon shouted jubilantly. "No painting can go in there! We've got him—"

He was cut off by Violet's ear-splitting shriek.

"A SNAKE!" the man with a boisterous voice bellowed. "A SNAKE! A SNAKE!"

Harry paused. The cacophony of sound rose like a storm at sea, and he wished he could see what was going on. But a few moments later, the rustling sound rose and washed over everything, and Harry realized suddenly what it was: the sound of wind through pine trees.

"_Arglwyd_," murmured the snake, suddenly close now. "_I am here_."

Harry felt the cool body of the snake wind comfortingly around his ankle. The crescendo of the singing pines passed, and there was a relative silence. _Everything is so quiet_, thought Harry, uneasily.

Harry heard a rustling of cloth. "My Lady," murmured Phineas Nigellus.

"Fair madam," said Sir Cadagon in a courteous voice and with a clanking of metal as he bowed; Harry heard Violet and the other painting murmur similar words respectfully and almost reverentially.

_What?_ thought Harry, thoroughly confused. He turned around, slowly, and sudden was aware of a presence. He held his breath, not knowing what it was or what to do. He felt the snake moving very slowly, unwinding itself from Harry's ankle, and with it gone, Harry suddenly felt very small and very unsure.

He licked his lips. The sound of pines rose again. "Is… anyone here?"

"Yes," said a voice right in front of him. Harry started. It was a woman's voice: rich and strong and lilting, like the earth and the fields and the mountain, and— "You have the nose."

Harry blinked and lifted a hand to touch his nose. "I…"

"Do not bother him," the woman said abruptly, and Harry realized that she was addressing the paintings. "Do not hinder him in any way. Let him go as he pleases. Spread the word among the other portraits that they have a visitor who is under my wing. And—most important of all—do not speak of this at all to any in the world of living."

"But m'Lady," Phineas began silkily, "I am under explicit orders from Headmaster Dumbledore himself—"

"You know as well as I that Dumbledore's word means nothing next to mine," the woman snapped. Harry's eyebrows rose. _What kind of person is she?_ he thought bemusedly. "Now go."

The paintings promptly left, Phineas with swift footsteps that made Harry think he was a bit miffed, and Cadagon with an inordinate amount of clanking that suggested he was bowing his way out of the painting.

The sound of the pine trees rose again.

"So you are here," said the woman, curtly. "I thought it would happen about now. He told me, too."

Harry hesitated. _What's going on?_ "I don't understand."

"It doesn't matter," she said dismissively. "But this is your gift, your gift of time, and I intend for you to use it well."

Harry's jaw dropped. "How—how do you—"

"Never mind that," she said briskly. "But tell your snake to go somewhere else. A snake of the _anguis_ is made to be roam and be free as the air."

_Tell it to go away?_ he thought, feeling suddenly very hesitant. _This is ridiculous, you don't want to be its master_, a voice snapped in his mind, but—it wasn't that, he just didn't want to be so—alone. "Uh…"

"_Then I shall let you and the lady converse without my presence, arglwyd?"_ queried the snake. It was already moving away.

"That's… fine," Harry said reluctantly and wished that the snake would stay. But it was leaving—gone already, and he felt powerless to call it back. _He probably knows who this lady is_, thought Harry. _Who is she, who knows so much?_ He wondered briefly if he should be feeling more wary, but all he felt was a kind of lingering cautiousness.

"Now stand still," the lady commanded. "Let me look at you."

Harry obeyed, though he was still ready to dart away.

"_Bachgen_," the woman murmured after a moment, and Harry froze.

"That's…"

"Welsh for boy and for son," she said dryly, in a voice that made Harry feel as dumb and stupid as he had felt in those miserable potions classes. "Anyhow," she said, "I expect you have a few questions?"

"Yes," Harry said uncertainly. "Who are you?"

"I don't think I shall tell you that now," she said immediately. "You will understand later—hopefully. Ask something else."

"Oh." He paused. "I… can't really think of anything else to ask," Harry said. It was a half-lie. His mind was whirling with questions, but none that he could ask. _Who am I? Why am I here?_ It was nothing someone else might answer for him.

"It is as you should," the woman said briskly. "Let me tell you now a bit about the world you are in, this world of portraits, this world of half-life. Portraits are—impressions, the salient parts of personality and appearance, but that is all. There is not much beneath the surface."

Harry nodded, thinking of Sir Cadagon's ceaseless challenges. It was difficult to imagine that a real person would be nothing but that.

"But I am not like that, and neither are you," continued the woman. Harry thought there was a kind of smile in her voice. "We are not really portraits, and I am not really alive either, as you are. But I cannot affect the world of the living, I of the half-life. That is my rule."

Harry frowned. "Your… rule?"

"Yes, my rule. My deal with magic. But that's my business, and none of yours. Roam about if you like, and if you are sleepy, there are paintings of beds near the Hufflepuff dormitories. Do you where those are?"

Harry shook his head.

"I'll explain, then," she said, and proceeded to instruct Harry how to reach the Hufflepuff dorms. He noted that she did not tell him using landmarks that would require sight: instead, she described how the air would feel, what noises he would hear, what smells would linger—almost as though she herself were blind. But he didn't dare ask.

"You can ask the other portraits if you forget. Just mention me, and you'll have no trouble."

"Thank you," said Harry, "but—how will I—" _I don't even know who she is, much less how to mention her_, he thought, floundering.

"I am the Lady. That is all you will know for now. Perhaps we will meet again later, and then again, we may not. I must leave." Her voice was beginning to fade. _Wait_, Harry wanted suddenly to call out: but wait for what? for him? "Go well, _bachgen_, and use wisely this gift of time."

Even as her words were finishing, Harry could hear—still far away—the sound of footsteps and of voices, the laughter and excited blabber of the students. And suddenly they were closer, much closer, so close that Harry felt an irrational panic seize him. _Run!_ a voice shrieked inside him, but he didn't. He didn't run, he couldn't run—not so much that he was frozen by his fear but because an inexplicable compulsion, the same that had made him stand and suffer Ron's caustic shouts and Snape's damning words, made him stay where he was—

The wave was upon him. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, and he—

"…of Harry Potter, and"—his heart skipped a beat: he'd been recognized, they'd seen him—"she looked the same as always."

He let out a small, hesitant breath. So they hadn't seen him. They were just talking about him. He was still afraid to breath.

"But d'you think he'd really been expelled? I mean—all of us saw what he did to Granger, but…"

"I still say the _Prophet_ was right," a feminine voice said stubbornly. "Remember what they said back with the Triwizard Tournament, that Potter was crazy?"

The voices were moving away, drowning in the babble, and—after the briefest moments of hesitation—he moved quickly to hear the response—

"…don't know… but Skeeter's a rag… still, you might be…"

He felt the curtain of magic buzzed in front of his face and realized that he had reached the end of the painting. _Is that what they think of me?_ he thought. _Well then_, _it's_—

He turned around, hearing his name _again_.

"…the Boy-Who-Lived! He can't've gone Dark!"

"Who knows," a voice answered ominously. "My sister told me that Potter was a Parseltongue, and if that's not a trait of a Dark Wizard, I don't know what is…"

"…see him? I could even feel it from where I was, at the _other end of the hall_…"

"…bout time, too… I mean, he's always strutting around… thinking he's too good…"

The voices began to fade. The footsteps were sparser now as the students filed into their next classes. Occasionally, Harry could hear someone running down the corridors before they could be late, and every now and then a loud bark of laughter. Then, gently, silence fell, until all he could hear was the calm rustling of the pine trees.

_So that's what they think_, he thought. He felt—he didn't really feel much besides a kind of hollow numbness. It was almost as if they were talking about a separate person, as he though he _weren't_ Harry Potter.

_But I am_, he thought. _I am Harry Potter, and Harry Potter is I_. He swallowed, feeling a knot forming in his throat. _But at the same time, I'm not_. He couldn't help remembering sitting next to Ron and Hermione by the Gryffindor fire, lazily basking in their friendship… a different person altogether, living in a vastly different world. It was like breathing or drinking. It was only now, now that he had lost their friendship, that he felt the ache of its absence.

_But who am I then?_ he thought, frustration welling up in him. He felt lost, lost and alone. _What is my purpose? What am I doing here? Why am I here?_ He was Slytherin's heir, and he was the Boy-Who-Lived; he was the only one who could kill Voldemort—and he was beaten, broken, a _freak_, unwanted by his father, hated by the ones who had been his closest friends—

He cut off his thoughts. His hands were trembling. He wondered, suddenly, if he could leave the painting, if he could simply step out of the portrait and into the world of living. For a moment, he was seized by the terrible urge to try. He almost stepped forward, but at the last moment, as though he had been teetering on a cliff, he stepped back. _No,_ he thought shakily, breathing deeply in and out. _What were you thinking?_

He decided resolutely to go find the painting near the Hufflepuff dormitories that had a bed and take a nap. He was sleepy. He wondered how he was going to eat but remembered the picture of the fruit bowl in front of the kitchens; perhaps he could gnaw on that?

_And where is the snake?_ he thought. But he didn't feel too worried: the snake could take care of itself. Even if it did make him feel more lonely than ever—but he stopped that train of thought as well, and moved out of the painting with the rustling pine trees.


	11. The Cell

_A/N: "The Wheel" is for Procyon, Shakespeare obsessee and fellow Yeats lover. Many thanks for a most excellent beta!_

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Cell**

Harry felt restless.

He had been in the portrait world for several days. He'd found the painting of beds next to the Hufflepuff dormitories on the first day after getting lost and then hesitantly asking the paintings for directions. Harry had gotten the feeling that most of the portraits didn't know that they were, in fact, portraits.

There were actually five beds in all in the painting. They had yellow sheets and black coverlets, and large, curiously striped pillows, which would have been distracting if Harry had been able to see. But besides those differences, the beds and their arrangement were exactly the same as in Gryffindor tower. The bed he was sitting on would have been his, and plopped on the bed further down would've been Neville. Diagonally across would have been Dean, who had that West Ham football team poster taped above his bed, and beside him would have been Seamus, with his sprawling mess, and then R—

His mind blanked in a brief explosion of agony. It was like plunging his hand in a boiling cauldron before snatching it out.

_Don't think about it_, he whispered to himself as the pain slowly faded. _Don't think about it at all_.

The snake had vanished in the middle of the first night. Harry had first noticed that the snake was missing when he had—very briefly—considered taking a glimpse at the students as they shuffled sleepily to breakfast. When, hours later, the snake didn't return, he had begun pacing back and forth, back and forth. Should he leave this painting? Should he venture out to look for the snake? (And face all those squabbling portraits and students and perhaps get lost and end up in certain places close to certain—people?) The snake could take care of itself. It surely knew the realm of paintings better than he did, and, besides, it was armed with deadly venom. But still...

The snake had returned a bit later, saying that the Hufflepuff territory was decidedly boring, and Harry had suddenly realized, after letting a wave of relief wash over him, that he wasn't hungry, and hadn't been hungry ever since entering the portrait world. Nor was he thirsty.

"_It is something that is forgotten when you enter the realm of the paintings_," the snake had explained before wandering off again. "_You might find yourself with quite an appetite after you leave, though_."

_After you leave_. Harry let the words echo through his mind. _After you leave_. Leaving meant Voldemort, and the endless whisperings, and the pressure of being the child of the prophecy, and facing how utterly useless and disgusting and pathetic he was; and facing his fa—

His mind stopped there.

When he allowed himself to form thoughts again, he realized he'd forgotten to do something before the snake left: ask about the Lady. Who was she, and how did she know so much about him? What power did she hold over all the portraits? Where did she come from? But as he turned his thoughts and memories over and over in his mind, he wondered if she really knew so much, or if only seemed to. Were her words simply careless remarks that hit an unsuspecting target, or were they truly subtle hints?

_The snake probably wouldn't have told me anyway_, Harry had thought resignedly. _He'd probably just give some cryptic answer and slither away_.

But when the snake came back some long hours later, Harry asked about the mysterious Lady anyway. There had been nothing better to do besides ponder the few things he could safely think about.

"_She's been here the longest time_," the snake answered, winding itself around Harry's fingers. Harry hesitated a moment before plunging his mind into the snake. The white mist parted, and Harry could see a white ceiling and an open window, overlooking a picturesque meadow. "_Her power over the other portraits is her right. Indeed, she has more power over this school than the headmaster has_."

"_How is that possible?_" Harry asked.

The snake, moving its head slowly, looped from his hands to around one of the bedposts. "_She is the Lady_," the snake answered negligently, as though that explained everything. "_But remember: she can do nothing to change the world of living. Unless_," said the snake, and Harry fancied that its tone had changed, "_the living enters the portrait realm_."

Harry processed all the snake had said. His field of vision dropped dizzyingly and Harry quickly withdrew his mind. "_But who _is_ she?"_ he asked one last time as the snake moved away.

"_The Lady_," it replied, and then was gone.

He had spent the rest of that day in boredom. There was only a limited amount of thought he could pour into pondering the same, safe things over and over again, before his mind started numbing with boredom, and darting towards darker things.

There was a distinct difference between boredom and tranquility. With tranquility, he could let himself forget everything, feel nothing, and float in an endless bliss. He had almost managed that several times, but then the tide of chattering students would roll back in. Every single one of them would blabber mindlessly, carelessly, in loud, untroubled tones; and every single one of them would mention him—Harry Potter, the Death-Eater-in-training; Harry Potter, the new Dark Lord; Harry Potter, the cowardly Gryffindor who ran away; Harry Potter, the hero who would return.

He'd lost all hope for tranquility.

And so it went for a few endless days. Hiding in the morning, hiding at night; enduring the student's tumultuous chatter, letting the empty silence fill him; content in his sanctuary, increasingly restless in his... his prison? exile? void? What name could he give his own existence?

He hadn't been able to sleep at all last night. The night before had been slightly easier, though he had tossed and turned and eventually crept to the windowsill, pretending that the painting scenery was that of the endless night. He'd fallen asleep there, imagining that the moonbeams could penetrate his eyelids and pierce his glazed eyes. But last night, his mind had been plagued with—unspeakable things, unthinkable thoughts. Memories he dared not remember. Emotions he dared not feel.

So it had been a very sleepless night. It was quite wretched, really, as he was feeling very grouchy today, and, judging from the most recent tide of voracious, empty-bellied students, it was barely noon.

But his bad mood didn't dampen the strange restlessness he felt.

_I wish the snake were here_, he thought as he got up suddenly and made his way to the boundary of the portrait. He hesitated. He could feel the buzz of the magical boundary hovering in front of his face. _I can't see a thing. I can always go a bit later, when the snake comes back. It doesn't matter if I wait a bit—just a bit_. His body tensed with indecision.

And then, like a puppet released from its strings, he stepped forward, and found himself falling through the tingling boundary between portraits.

The first thing he noticed was that the air was thick, rich, and sluggish. There seemed to be a slight taste of oil lingering in his mouth and filtering through his lungs.

_I must be in an oil painting_, he thought. _It can't be anything else_. The ground was hard and cold under his bare feet. _I wonder what kind of place I'm in_. _It certainly isn't a landscape._ _A portrait?_ He took a step forward, extending his senses like a cat stretching. He felt as though some part of him had turned into a bird and flown out an open window. He had wandered out of his tiny haven, and things all around him were different and unknown.

He shivered.

_Maybe there's nothing here_, he thought, having sensed nothing. Quietly, he stepped across the boundary into another painting. He had the distinct sense of having descended, as though he'd taken a step down on a staircase. _Still oil_, he thought, taking in the sense of... well, smallness. The painting wasn't a very big one, he knew instinctively. _A smaller portrait?_ But he—

There was a faint rumbling of sound, welling up from far away. The tramping of feet, the babble of voices—

_The students are coming_, Harry thought and licked his suddenly dry lips. He slipped out of the painting into another one. Another oil. _Watercolors are so much more comfortable_.

A loud whoop from an overly enthusiastic Hufflepuff sounded suddenly, so close that Harry jumped and felt ice flash at his fingertips. _Calm down_, he chided himself a moment later, and quickly stole from the painting. _Don't be so twitchy_. He passed into another painting, and had the distinct feeling that he'd covered a great distance—

"—understand it! Now I can really understand how he felt last year. Nobody is telling me _anything_."

Harry froze, as though caught in the green light of the Killing Curse. He felt panic rising like a dark cloud, shrieking at him to flee, to run away, but he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot. His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer. _Ginny_, he thought, throat suddenly dry.

"I can't tell you," replied a voice, tired and flat. _Hermione_, Harry thought, feeling his pulse quicken. Hermione, who had been a faithful friend; Hermione, whom he had slammed into the wall with a burst of scalding magic; Hermione, who now stood so close that he could hear her breathe.

"Why not?" Ginny demanded hotly. "You and Ron always know something I don't. Why don't you ever tell me? I only want to help. And I won't tell anyone else, you know I won't."

"Ginny, you don't understand—whether you want to help or not, I still can't tell you because I really don't think Harry wanted anyone to know either."

"But did he ever mention not telling _me_?"

Hermione sounded upset. "Ginny!" Harry moved quietly, slowly, to the edge of the portrait, hiding behind where he felt the frame to be. His heart was in his throat. Any moment, one of them might glance up and see him. He could almost hear their voices already, full with surprise and shock and accusation... "You know what I mean. It's one of the things that he doesn't want others to know, and in this case, it's not just him. And—and I agree with keeping it hidden."

"But why?" Ginny asked, her voice tinged with desperation. There was a pause. Harry leaned forward before hastily pulling himself back, suppressing a shiver as he did so. He felt as though he would topple out of the painting at any moment. Ginny continued, in a smaller voice, "Is it this secret thing that's made Ron become so—" She stopped. "Such a stupid, immature prat?"

Harry swallowed.

"Don't say that," Hermione replied automatically. "Ginny, _please_. Stop pestering me. You've been asking me for three days already, and I can't tell you." Her voice softened. "Please, Ginny?"

"I'm not giving up, Hermione," Ginny snapped. "You may choose not to tell me, but I'm going to ask you for it until I find out."

"Ginny, how would you feel if someone kept asking you about things you wouldn't want anyone to know, like Tom Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets?" Hermione's voice has risen slightly. "How would you like it if Harry told some random person about what had happened, without you knowing?"

"I—that's not the point," Ginny replied, sounding slightly troubled. "I'm just trying to help him... and you _know_ me..."

"I thought I knew Ron," Hermione said with a bitterness that Harry had never heard in her voice before.

"I'm not Ron," Ginny said quickly, as though the mere thought was nauseous. "I pestered Ron about Harry, but he told me the stupidest things, like Harry joining Voldemort, or—"

Harry heard the three sets of footsteps approach, footsteps that he recognized with a sinking stomach as soon as the arrogant voice spoke.

"What, Potter joining the Dark Lord?" Malfoy drawled. "Who'd have thought?"

"Bugger off, Malfoy," Ginny grated. "Or I'll curse you into next week."

"Oooh, I'm so terrified," Malfoy snickered. Harry heard two nondescript grunts from whom he assumed to be Crabbe and Coyle. "Where's Potter to save you? Not here anymore, is he?"

"I'm warning you, Malfoy—"

"No, Ginny," Hermione snapped. "Just ignore him."

"D'you know why he's not here anymore, Weasley?" Malfoy continued, his tone leery. "It's because he chickened out and ran away. It's because your precious savior is a coward."

_That's not true!_ Harry thought, feeling a bolt of shock at the accusation. But he clutched at the portrait frame to steady himself.

"Liar!" Ginny shouted. "I bet _you_ know where he is—you and your Death-Eater father!"

"My Death-Eater father is on the winning side," Malfoy returned smoothly. "The Dark Lord took him out of Azkaban. He'll be doing your family a favor, too, once he helps your family _shrink_ a bit..."

"GINNY, NO—"

"_LET ME GO, GOD D_—"

"My, my, my... Weasley, Granger..."

Harry stiffened and darted out of sight. His heart began to pound wildly.

"Professor Snape!" Hermione said, sounding slightly out of breath.

"They started it," said Malfoy, not missing a beat. "Granger was insulting me, and Weasley was just about to curse me 'into next week,' as she threatened."

"Hermione did no such thing!" Ginny shouted hotly. "You're such a liar, Malfoy, I—"

"That will be thirty points from Gryffindor and detention with me for a week," Snape said coldly.

Harry flinched. Ginny stopped short. A moment later she began sputtering, too outraged to speak.

"Malfoy, you have a letter from your father," Snape said coolly, in a tone that clearly meant dismissal. There was a pause, and Harry heard Malfoy mutter something. "And, Granger, Weasley, I would suggest removing yourselves from my presence. Gryffindor cannot afford to lose anymore points without"—Harry cringed at the sneering tone—"its little hero."

_Don't, please don't_, Harry pleaded silently. _Don't say anymore, please don't_...

"You aren't fit to lick the soles of Harry's shoes," Ginny declared.

"Ginny!" Hermione whispered fiercely.

"Really, Miss Weasley?" Snape queried in a dangerous, mock-innocent tone. "It's touching how you still defend your little crush, even when he's running from all his troubles like a coward—a coward just like his father." Harry felt his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. He didn't want to hear this anymore—anything but this; but he couldn't leave. "I suppose Potter couldn't face that fact that it was he who killed his pathetic godfather. A pity they did not go together."

Harry jerked back as though pulled roughly by a string. A knot had formed in his throat and there was a stinging behind his eyes. _He wishes that I were dead_, Harry thought. _He truly wishes that I were dead_. He was aware of Hermione and Ginny defending him, but he didn't take in anything they said. Snape's words echoed in his mind. He could think of nothing else—nothing else mattered.

Before he knew it, he was in another portrait. He had to leave. He had to escape. He needed a place to go to—to hide, to be safe from the pain—

He kicked off impulsively and darted through another portrait. Moving. He needed to keep moving in order to keep the emptiness at bay—oh, how it _hurt_. It was like clawing his way through an icy blizzard. He was blind, blind, and the air rushed past him in a thousand flavors, and he was—

—_running from all his troubles like a coward._ He stopped, drained of all energy. _He's right. I am running. Oh God_, he thought brokenly. _He really wishes that I had died_. The painful knot in his throat was unbearable. _If only I could cry_, he thought. _If only I could shed tears_... _If only I _were_ really dead_. _Then_—

His fingers brushed the trunk of a tree. It was rough, and he dimly smelt pines. _Am I in the Lady's portrait?_ he wondered suddenly. He paused and attempted to compose himself. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, a pathetic wreck.

He walked past the tree, hands in front of him. There were trees all around him; he could feel them, but they seemed to part around him, even though they didn't move at all. He took another step, and felt the veil of magic between portraits slide over him.

The change was startling. The ground was suddenly cold under his feet, and judging from the cracks, he was standing on flagstones. _What painting have I gone into?_ Harry wondered. The texture of the air was different, too. It wasn't thick and filmy like that of an oil painting, nor was it fleeting like a watercolor.

He moved along the walls, which were made of stone, and came upon a bed. Keeping his left hand in front of him, he clambered onto it. The covers were plain but soft, and he felt air and warmth on his face. His left hand touched something cold and metallic and cylindrical: iron bars. He pulled himself closer. _It's a window_, he realized. A barred window.

_This is like a cell, not in the dungeons but somewhere in a tower_, Harry thought. A bed simple, cold stone floor, stone walls, and a barred window. Sunlight and air streaming through. He couldn't remember ever having seen such a painting before. Here was solitude, and here was refuge.

He swallowed hard at the thought of it. He was indeed within a prison: the prison of his own cowardice, his own uselessness, his own fear. Snape—who was his father (he flinched as he allowed this thought to form)—was right. He was too weak to leave this cell; he was too weak to look outside and see how hated he was, to face the fruit of his unnaturalness and failure, to hear again those cutting, cutting words—

A door opened and closed. Footsteps. Harry turned to face the sound and stiffened. _It's outside the portrait_, he realized, and felt the adrenaline subside. _It's not from inside this painting_...

A chair was pulled out roughly, and Harry heard the sound of wood sliding on stone. Someone slumped into the chair, breathing hard. The sound of parchment being hurriedly unfolded. Then silence, except for the furious scribbling of a quill...

Harry left the bed and moved silently towards the sound. The person's breathing, initially heavy, had evened out, gradually being covered by the sound of writing, or drawing, or—

Abruptly, the breathing quickened, and there was a small _snap!_ A thin, strangled sob rang out. Harry froze at the sound of it. Then—parchment being torn furiously into fourths—crumpled—

"AAGH!"

He remained frozen where he stood, listening to the sound of clumps of paper lightly falling onto a desk. _Well, it's certainly not a girl_, he thought stupidly and wondered, in the ensuing silence, if he'd been seen. But he only heard another sound, something that might have been a sob breaking out of silence. And then, slowly and wearily, footsteps moved away, seemingly spent of all energy. There was the slight creak of the opening door, and, a small eternity later, the gentle thud of its closing.

A moment later Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. _Who was that?_ he wondered. He sat down on the bed, as though the other's fury had somehow drained him too. _It's definitely not a girl_, he thought. And the voice was—somewhat familiar. But not Ron, nor any of the Gryffindor boys... Strange, though. He was sure he had heard it before, somewhere.

His mind filed through layers of memory and resurfaced empty-handed and weary. _So I'm not the only one in Hogwarts who has issues_, Harry thought. Perhaps that other boy had some unspeakable tragedy, like the passing of a mother, or father—or worse, having all his tenuous hopes shattered and being hated though he had tried his best to be loved...

He shook his head quickly, dispelling the thought and the echoes of Snape's cold, cutting words before they could crowd into his mind. _What are the chances of him having been someone like that?_ he scoffed. _The world has enough Harry Potters_. But he wished, all the same, that he knew who the stranger was.

He heard the snake's hissing before he heard its slithering. It was hissing quite loudly, and its words carried a kind of rhythm, as though it were singing. "_Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call_..."

Harry wandered towards the sound. He bumped into something, and realized that it was a desk or table, standing against the wall.

"_And when abounding hedges ring, Declare that winter's best of all_..."

His hands went up and he felt the wall. But instead of cold stone, he felt canvas, roughened by colors and paint and brushstrokes. _It's a portrait_, he thought, awed. _It's a painting within a painting_.

"_And after that there s nothing good; Because the spring-time has not come_..."

_But no_, Harry thought. _This is no painting. This is the window to the world of the living_. Desk, bed, and barred tower-window: _is this painting a mirror of the room it's in?_ He lowered his hands to the desk and pulled out the chair he knew was there. On the other side of the wall and painting, someone else had done the same thing.

"_Nor know that what disturbs our blood, Is but its longing for the tomb_."

"_What are you saying?"_ Harry asked, sitting down. He could sense the snake as it coiled up his chair.

"_A poem, nothing more_," the snake answered. "_I was wandering the Astronomy Tower when I remembered it. I find that I am remembering things I had forgotten after I died. The last time_," the snake clarified, "_right after I first met you_."

"_Who killed you?"_ Harry asked, a bit shaken. He hadn't known that the snake had died then.

"_A witch. Very toad like. I'd like not to think of her, if you won't mind, arglwydd_." It was on the edge of Harry's tongue to ask what '_arglwydd_' meant, but the snake remarked, in a tone that bordered on smugness, "_So you've found this room_."

"_Yes_," said Harry, wary of the snake's superior tone. _"It's a painting of the room it's in, isn't it?"_

"_Which is the painting, and which is the room?"_ the snake asked, coiling up Harry's arm. It was silent for a moment. "_Someone certainly left a mess on the other side of the wall_."

"_A mess?_"

"_Parchment all over the desk. Someone was quite mad today_."

Harry stood up so that he was face to face with the portrait. "_Let me see, please_."

"_Of course, arglwydd_."

Harry felt the cold, smooth scales moving over his arm as the snake positioned itself. _The snake's a bit heavier than before_, Harry thought. _I wonder if it's eaten anything. Or maybe it's just growing_. The snake stopped moving, poised expectantly, and Harry plunged his mind into it.

The first thing he noticed was that the wall and the portrait were dark, as though cast in shadow. The second thing he noticed was the painting itself: it was indeed a picture of the room he himself was in: stone walls, stone ceiling, the head of a bed, a desk, and a door somewhere out of the frame. The window, too, couldn't be seen, but there was a brilliant streak of light in the painting that fell straight across the floor.

Harry turned his head around to see if there was matching illumination coming from the barred window he had felt, but the snake continued to stare at the painting. Harry turned his attention back to it, and noticed the clumps of parchment that lay in darkness on the desk.

Harry leaned closer, and the frame of vision loomed until Harry could see each fold and wrinkle in the crumpled parchments. He could even make out one or two scribbled words... A few, not much, and even those... He realized he was squinting, and relaxed his eyes.

"_Can you make out what it says?_" Harry hissed.

The snake was silent for a moment and Harry tilted his head to get a better view, and forgot that he had to move his arm to do so. 'Why do you...' Harry read, and then the paper crumpled into shadow.

"'_Hate_,'" said the snake. "_It says 'hate,' right there_."

"'_Hate?'"_ Harry echoed, tilting his arm. "_Oh. It does_." The word had been written very quickly, and Harry frowned, certain that he had seen the handwriting before. "_After 'hate,' I think it says 'my_...'"

"_It ends there,_" said the snake. _"After that word. There's an ink blot on the parchment._"

"_But what's the last word?_"

"_Father_."

The colors dimmed for a moment to white, but Harry forced his mind back in. "_Are you sure?_"

"_I could be wrong_," the snake remarked. "_I can only see something '-ther,' actually. It could be 'mother.' But that letter looks like an 'a' to me."_

"_Oh_," Harry said. He felt a slight tug from the snake, and let his mind slip back to whiteness. He sat down, and the snake slithered off his wrist.

"_This place is much better than that painting in Hufflepuff territory_," the snake said conversationally. "_I shall be back sometime soon. I think I shall go explore North Tower_."

"_Yes, you do that_," Harry hissed. The snake left.

Harry got out of the chair and walked to the middle of the room, where he felt a sudden warmth, as though struck by sunlight. _I am being struck by sunlight_, he thought, remembering the brilliant streak of illumination in the painting—or in the world of living, rather. _Or both. Whatever._ He made his way to the window that opened right above his bed.

_I don't hate my father_, Harry thought, both hands wrapped around the cold bars of the window. _He hates me_. He rested his head against one of the bars. _He hates me_. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget the words Snape had said, and wondered, at the same time, who the stranger might have been...


	12. The Stranger

_A/N: Thanks, again, to Procyon for the lightning beta and the hilarious afterthought!_

**

* * *

****Chapter 12: The Stranger**

"_Are you thinking about him?_"

Harry started and turned towards the hissing. "_Snake! Where were you?_" He reached out an arm and felt the snake wrap itself around his wrist. "_You were gone for four days._" He paused and probed into the snake's mind._ "Or was it three?_"

"_Only three_," the snake replied, its voice a bit distracted as color bled into Harry's vision. "_I was exploring_. _I think I remember almost half of what I used to know_."

"_Is that the only way you can get your memory back?_" Harry asked, equally distracted. The colors of darkness flooded into his brain, and it felt like an inexorable tide, bearing down on his other senses. The painting he was in was almost exactly as he had remembered it—the bed and table with the window and painting and the lone streak of blazing light falling across the room._ "By exploring Hogwarts, I mean_."

"_No, but seeing things from past lives helps me remember_," said the snake. "_I think I lived most of my past lives in the castle. But anyway, were you thinking about him_?"

Harry withdrew his mind. "_What?_"

"_Weeere_," the snake hissed slowly, "_you thiiiinking of hiiiiim_?"

"_Who's this he you're talking about_?" Harry countered, though he thought he already knew.

"_The mysterious stranger who hates his father_."

"_No_," Harry replied automatically. He paused. The snake waited. "_Well, yes, actually. I was thinking of him, a little_."

"_Ahh_," said the snake in a superior tone.

"_What?_" Harry asked suspiciously. "_Do you know who he is_?"

"_I might_," said the snake, slithering off Harry's wrist. The shades of color melted once again into a dazzling whiteness. "_Did you search for him?_"

Harry frowned. "_I_… _wasn't searching for anything_." Had he been searching? He cast his mind to the past few days. He had wandered. He had hid. He had listened and heard the words and voices of a hundred thousand people. Some of their words were about him, Harry Potter, and he'd learned that he was never the same person to two different people. Sometimes it felt as though they were talking about someone else; sometimes it felt as though he didn't exist, that he really was a painting, a ghost within the walls.

But night and silence fell, and he would wander the halls restlessly. Sleep came to him in discrete amounts, like milk squeezed out of a green branch. While the world slept, he felt alive: if not alive, then as free as a ghost upon the wind. His mind remained as blank as an empty glass, and it had become easy not to think about things that would hurt. It helped that he darted away whenever he heard the voices of those whom he had known, his friends in a past life. Hermione, Ginny, Ron, Neville…

He was glad he never once heard Snape's voice—no whisper or murmur or echo of that cool and angry voice. Glad, and relieved, but at the same time, just a little bit—

He quickly cut off that thought.

"_Well, I wasn't searching either_," said the snake. "_But I did find something interesting_."

"_What did you find_?"

Harry could hear the snake slithering away across the stones. "_Follow me, arglwydd_."

Harry stood hesitantly. "_What did you find_?" he asked again. "_And what does arglwydd mean_?" There was no reply. "_Snake_?" He sighed after a moment of indecision and crossed the room, feeling the sliding of magic over his skin as he left the portrait.

"_So you've decided to follow me_," the snake commented, sounding quite satisfied.

"_What does arglwydd mean_?" Harry demanded, following the snake as they crossed the portrait and entered another. The ground under his feet changed from grass to hard marble, and then to the nondescript velvet of the unseen portrait floors.

"_What do you think it means?"_ The air changed too, becoming suddenly damp, as though they were walking through a virgin forest.

Harry frowned. "_How would I_—" And suddenly, he knew. It simply bubbled to the surface of his mind from some vat underneath his consciousness, and he hissed, half in amusement and half in annoyance, "_I told you not to call me Master!"_

"_I haven't been calling you Master_," the snake replied innocently.

"_'Arglwydd' is 'Master' in Welsh!"_ Harry exclaimed, exasperated. "_You're just__—_

"_Actually_," said the snake, "_'arglwydd' means 'Lord,' not 'Master.'_"

_"__It's all the s__ame thing,_" Harry muttered._You're just splitting hairs. Don't call me __Master, or Lord, or anything like that, or any form of that, at all__. Please. Call me—just call me Harry_." _Harry_. It was a strange name, Harry thought, for an Heir of Slytherin to have. But it was even stranger to think of himself as the Heir of Slytherin. He was simply… Harry.

"_What about Henry? Or Hei__n__rich?"_

"_Heimerich?_" He thought for a moment, trying to will up any knowledge from Slytherin's gift of knowledge, but none came. "_That's not Welsh, is it_?_ Or English_…"

"_It's German for 'home ruler,' from which Henry came, from which Harry came_."

"_You know German_?" Harry asked, a bit surprised and rather impressed.

"_I used to_," the snake replied. "_We're here, now_."

Harry stopped. "_Where?_" He bent down with outstretched arms, and felt the snake wrap around his forearms. The whiteness bled away, and Harry saw a giant grandfather clock standing in the middle of a grassy meadow with little sheep ambling in the distance. Harry stared, wondering why there was a grandfather clock in the middle of a field populated only by sheep.

"_What's this_?" Harry asked.

"This," came an acerbic voice behind him, as footsteps approached, "is a guarded entrance that you have no business hanging about."

Harry whirled around. The field of vision teetered crazily, and he felt an instance of sickening vertigo. White instantly began bleeding into his mind, and the milky expanse seemed suddenly familiar and comforting. He shook his hands and the snake coiled off with a disgruntled hiss. But the snake had felt too much like a set of manacles around his wrists, denying him mobility as he felt pools of ice tingle in his palms as the silver needles itched to emerge.

"Awfully jittery, are you not?" the voice continued.

Harry frowned, feeling his pounding heart subside. It wasn't Snape—thank Merlin—but it was still familiar. "Phineas Nigellus?"

"Who did you expect?" Phineas snorted. "Paracelsus? And what are you doing here, teenager? I know you adolescents, always trying to stick your bits into matters you shouldn't concern yourselves with, always believing yourselves to be right and everyone else to be wrong…"

"_Oh, shut up_," the snake muttered, sounding supremely bored.

"Shut up indeed!" Phineas snapped. "If you weren't a snake, I'd—"

"You can speak Parseltongue?" Harry demanded, the remark torn from him in his surprise.

"No, you imbecile," the former headmaster replied impatiently. "I can understand it—it is a talent I learned in my youth, through much training, may my mother rot in peace."

"_Then you should I know that I think you are a narrow-minded old fart who should never have been headmaster_," the snake said, still sounding uninterested and aloof. "_Let alone Head of Slytherin House_," it added as an afterthought.

"Why you—"

"_I'll have you know that my Master is no imbecile_," the snake interrupted icily. "_He is the Heir of Slytherin._"

"He is an adolescent," Phineas thundered.

"_Nevertheless, he is the Heir of Slytherin. You should be kissing his feet_."

"_I—don't,_" Harry sputtered, taken aback and feeling a blush rising up his neck and to his face. "I'm not—I mean, I am the Heir, but—"

"_Well?_" the snake demanded coldly._ "What are you waiting for, Phineas? Pay your respects to the Heir of Slytherin!"_

"_Snake!"_ Harry hissed, aghast.

Phineas Nigellus made a sound that Harry decided had to have been the grinding of teeth. "I, Phineas Elagabalus Diadumenianus Nigellus," the former headmaster squeezed out, "do humbly pay my respects to the rightful Heir of Lord Salazar Slytherin."

"_Very good_," the snake hissed, sounding very smug. "_See, it wasn't so hard, was it?_"

"Silence, reptile!" Phineas snapped. "And if it may not be too impertinent of me, may I ask why the young Lord and his pet snake are loitering outside the private quarters of the Hogwarts potions master, Severus Alexander Snape?"

Harry staggered. "_What_?" he croaked. "Is this—really?"

"Yes, indeed it is," Phineas sneered. "Oh, did your little pet neglect to tell you?"

"I…" Harry swallowed and backed away from the grandfather clock, seized by a sudden dread. His entire being was screaming at him to run away, to flee.

"_Wait!"_ the snake hissed, slithering and wrapping itself around Harry's ankles. Harry jumped at the contact, and once again felt ice pooling at his fingertips. "_Don't leave, arglwydd_."

"_But I—I cannot stay_," Harry pressed out. It was difficult to breathe. He had to leave. He had to get away. He couldn't stay—he couldn't!

"Why, my Lord," Phineas queried with mock deference, "do you find Snape's presence so odious?"

"_Shut up, old fart_," the snake hissed furiously. "_Leave, before I bite you_."

"I do not blame you, my Lord," Phineas continued, as though snake had said nothing. "Young Snape has been unusually snappish lately. Come to think of it, the Headmaster Dumbledore has been unusually tired." He sighed gustily. "Too much stress looking for that Potter brat of theirs, I imagine."

Harry froze. The words struck him like thunder. _They're all looking for me_, Harry thought, feeling guilt clench his heart. _They all believe that I must save them. And all I do is run and hide, hide and run, and feel sorry for myself_. He felt a surge of self-hatred, of shame and despair, of frustration and helplessness—a surge so strong that it choked him. _I wish I weren't this weak_, he thought furiously. He didn't feel the snake unwinding itself from around his ankles, but he did hear a high-pitched and rather frantic yelp.

"_What was that_?" Harry asked, arising from his daze.

"_The old fart,_" the snake said, satisfied. "_I've driven him awa__y. Forget what he said."_

"_But he's right_," Harry said, feeling hollow. "_They are looking for me, and I_—" _I'm just running and hiding because I'm so weak—oh, why can't I face them?_ For the second time, he wondered wildly if he could just topple out of the world of paintings and plant his feet again in the stone corridors of Hogwarts' halls—and hear the vicious tide of whispers, murmurs, and then, cutting through them all, that cool, controlled voice, full of disgust and hate—

He knew that he would never be able to survive that. He knew it better than he knew his name. He would never be able to survive it a second time.

"_Arglwydd_," the snake whispered uncertainly. "_Arglwydd—Harry. Master_."

"_Don't call me that_," Harry said automatically. His voice broke.

"_I was wrong to bring you here_," the snake said, sounding regretful for the first time Harry could remember. "_You were not ready, and_—"

"_No, no_," Harry interrupted. "_I—I should go. I should face him, I shouldn't be so—so_—"

"_You are _not_ weak_," the snake said resolutely. Harry felt it wrap itself around his ankle. "_You are the Heir of Slytherin, and in your possession are the heirlooms of this noble line—the silent thief that may steal away souls, the Water of Sight, the knowledge from the Well_."

"_It doesn't matter—I _am _weak, and those gifts, they're just—gifts, that can be given to anyone, and haven't I been running, and hiding? Why me? I can't_—_I can't even—_"

The snake's voice was firm yet soothing, like the sound of a thousand leaves touching. "_You are the Heir_. _Do you remember? Lord Slytherin bade you ask him any questions except for that: why are _you_ the Heir?_"

The snake fell silent.

"_And I don't suppose you can answer that either_," Harry muttered.

"_You've supposed correctly_."

A little wind within the portrait stirred the grass of the meadow, and he felt the blades softly brush his legs. His heart calmed its frantic beating, and Harry felt the fit of panic and anguish recede, though it left him with a lingering sense of unhappiness. He took a deep breath. "_About this_… _entrance to—Snape's—private quarters_…"

"_Ah_," said the snake, sounding once again like its self-righteous self. It uncoiled itself from around Harry's leg. "_That. The grandfather clock is the traditional doorkeeper. It is both inside and outside the world of paintings, but I don't think you've seen it outside—it's very well hidden, and only those who know it exists may see it_."

"_So it's like the gargoyle in front of the headmaster's office?"_ Harry asked.

"_Yes, similar. But Severus Snape did not set a password. It is a passage of blood: only those of the Snape line can enter._"

Harry was silent for a moment. His lips were suddenly dry. "_Of the_… _of the__ Snape line_?"

"_Yes_," the snake said. "_Will you look at it?_"

Harry nodded, unable to speak. He reached down and let the snake wrap itself around his wrist.

The white mist cleared and the grandfather clock appeared once more before him: tall, imposing, simply carved from a wood with a deep, red color. The pendulum that swung back and forth was silver, rimmed with gold, and the face itself was simply crafted.

"_How do I do this_?" Harry asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

"_There is a design at the back of the clock, behind the pendulum_," the snake explained. "_Do you see it?_"

Harry moved closer, and his mind made out the faint outline of… something. Harry could now hear the soft swishing sound the pendulum made as it flashed in a silvery arc, paused, and fell across once more like a gleaming blade.

"_It's a snake, isn't it?"_ Harry asked. "_A snake with feathers—wings, I think, and it's wrapped around a branch._"

"_Yes_," said the snake. "_It is the emblem of your line: the ash and the snake_."

_My line_. He wanted to repeat it, to taste the fallacy in those two words, because he knew it wasn't true, he knew it, but before he could deny it, the snake went on.

"_To enter, you must press your hand to it—carefully. Do not let the pendulum touch you_."

"_All right_," Harry said, watching the pendulum swing back and forth. He could easily imagine it as a blade, ready to slice his hand off at the wrist. "_What'll happen after I press it_?"

"_I don't know_," the snake answered, sounding supremely unconcerned. "_You'll get in, I suppose_."

_That's reassuring_, Harry thought nervously. He moved a bit closer. The almost imperceptible movement of air from the swinging pendulum tickled his face.

"_Snake_," Harry asked hesitantly. "_When you meant that only one of the Snape line could enter_… _did you really mean line, or blood?"_

The snake swished its tail. "_Is there a difference_?"

"_Yes_," Harry replied with conviction. Blood could only go so far. Look at Voldemort and his father, Tom Riddle; look at—look at him, Harry Potter, and his mother's sister's family… He shuddered.

"_Touch the emblem_," the snake hissed. "_You will enter, arglwydd_."

_How can you be so sure?_ Harry wanted to demand. But he couldn't stall anymore; it would be too cowardly, too much a show of his weakness. _And if it does slice off my hand—or pull me in and cut my throat_, he thought grimly, _then_ _it might as well_.

He watched the pendulum intently. Its rhythm seemed to echo the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm himself, to blanket the ceaseless shrill of panic.

And then, as the pendulum lifted lazily, Harry thrust out his hand and pressed the emblem.

Nothing happened for a moment, and Harry waited for the pendulum to fall through his hand. But then he felt the faintest brush of air across his face and over his shoulders.

"_We are within_," the snake said, its voice soft, as though they were in an ancient and sacred place.

Harry moved back, and just as he withdrew his hand, the pendulum fell again. The snake turned its head, and Harry saw that the grandfather clock no longer stood in the middle of an empty meadow, but instead against an old stone wall. The stone wall was part of a crumbling castle, old and worn against a dim and overcast sky. Deeper into the painting was a gnarled tree, growing amidst tumbled rocks.

"_This is the potion master's lair_," hissed the snake, turning its head in a swift movement.

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. The room was dark, the walls ancient; there was a desk at the opposite end of the room, covered with a disorganized mess of papers.

"_He's not here_," said Harry, examining the room through the snake's eyes. He felt relief rush through him, and he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "_It's empty_."

"_Quite_," the snake agreed. "_Your father's rather messy, isn't he_?"

Harry swallowed hard as the snake slipped off his arm and the world careened back into a white murkiness. _My father_. The old pain returned, lashing through him and whispering memories in his ear: his father snarling _no_, the brutal voice and words…

There was a sound. Harry froze.

"_All these paintings are rather morbid_," the snake hissed loudly from somewhere far off. "_They seem to have come with the room, though, so I doubt he chose them—_"

"_Snake,"_ Harry whispered urgently, "w_e have to leave, now! He'll be back any moment_."

"_Who, your father? He's in the next room, making a potion, I would think, from the fumes coming out from under the door."_

He couldn't help it. His breathing became faster more irregular, and he could hear the thunder of his heartbeat echoing harshly in his head. _I can't stay_, he thought wildly. _I have to leave. I have to leave—or hide._ He wondered where he might hide: in the grandfather clock, with the pendulum swinging in front of his face? Where?

"_Are you always on this_… _thing?"_

Harry looked up. "_What?"_ he rasped, voice sharp from fear.

"_The Daily Prophet_. _Fellow named Harry Potter has made the front page_."

_Wha_— Harry gaped, for a moment unable to respond, and then a thin, humorless laugh jerked from him. "_Yes, I_… _you could say that I'm almost always on that thing_. _But snake, I think—we should leave—_"

"_Listen to this: 'Despite Headmaster Dumbledore's assertions, the Boy-Who-Lived may not be as firmly fixed on the righteous path as many of us believe.' Mm. You sound so naughty, arglwydd_._"_

"_I_—"

There was a noise from the other room, of shuffling footsteps and the clanking of a stirring rod in the simmering depths of a potion.

Harry darted back to the grandfather clock. He clutched the sides and felt the air from the pendulum tickle his face. "_How—how do I leave?_" Should he stick his hand in again?

"_Arglwydd_!" the snake called.

_I can't stay_, thought Harry. He had to leave. He couldn't stay; not here, not now—

Another sound.

He felt the snake touch his ankle and he thrust out a hand, pushing against where the remembered the emblem of the Snape house to have been. His breath whistled harshly through his lungs as he felt the gentle whirling of air about his face.

"_Arglwydd_?"

Harry sat down in the grass slowly, like an old man.

"_Arglwydd_…"

"_I was running again_," Harry blurted out. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered like a leaf. "_I—I was running. Away. Again_." He took a deep breath and let it out, all the while shuddering weakly with self-loathing.

"_There is no shame in this_," the snake whispered.

"_It's not even shame_," muttered Harry. "_It's_…" _It is shame, partly_, Harry conceded. _But the prophecy points to me to save them—me and me alone. And I tell myself that I will not run, that I will conquer my fear, that it is a ridiculous weakness. But whenever it comes, this fear, whenever I face it, I_… _I cannot_—

He choked back a sob and then furiously wiped his eyes before remembering that he could shed no tears. Somehow the remembrance drained some of the anguish, leaving behind something very cold and very empty.

"_Let's go back to the cell_," Harry said. His voice was surprisingly calm, almost as though it didn't belong to him, but his entire body felt weak and shaky. "_Will you come with me?"_

"_Yes, I will_," said the snake. Harry noted that the snake sounded rather subdued. _Because of me_, thought Harry, and felt a pang of guilt. But it was nice that the snake was with him.

They made the journey in silence. Harry felt numb and exhausted. For the first time in a long while, he felt ready to lie down and shut his eyes and sleep…

But the moment they entered the cell, Harry felt the snake draw back, as though in surprise. Harry felt an echoing leap of fear and whispered quietly,

"_What is it?_" Noises: he could hear sounds, sounds that sounded like gentle scratching, gentle breathing…

The snake winded itself around his ankle, and Harry reached down so that it could coil around his wrists. "_Look through my eyes_," it said.

The mist cleared. Harry found himself looking at the portrait on the wall, the portrait that showed the world without, the world of the living. A streak of sunlight fell starkly across the plain table, but instead of the few ripped scraps of paper Harry had remembered seeing, there was a parchment, and a hand, writing…

Harry drew in a breath sharply. That mysterious boy, who had entered in a rage and spent it in a flurry of anguish, was here again. Harry moved a bit closer to the portrait, as silently as he could. The all-consuming rage Harry had remembered was utterly gone; instead, the stranger seemed pensive, quiet, and, Harry imagined, melancholy.

The snake lifted its head closer to the portrait. The light came in an isolated streak, bathing only the parchment and hands and quill in light but leaving everything else in darkness. _Who is he?_ Harry wondered, straining to make out the person's features. The head was bent over; the hair was of a light hue, but…

"_See what he's written_," the snake urged.

Harry turned his attention to the parchment, reluctantly. It was something private, he felt; something he had no right to see. But—the words formed with a strangely familiar script, and he was curious—

_Dear Father_…

Harry's mind paused at the heading. And then he read on.

_I do not know how to say this, and this letter will never be sent. But I wish I could tell you how I feel, that I feel as though I do not know you anymore. You are now so different from the Father I knew, the Father I loved. What happened? What caused this? Why? Is it the Master you serve? Mother feels it too, but she is silent. She is always silent now, and in her silence, I've lost the only ally I might have. I am alone. Slytherins are always alone, but I've never felt so desolate as I feel now. Here, far away from you, your presence still haunts me. What am I but the son of my father? What am I but an extension of you? What do they see in me besides a spoiled little brat, who flaunts his father's name because_—

Harry stared at the light-skinned hand, writing the next words. His heart was racing, his mind awhirl: _I know him_, he thought, and felt the impossible recognition click in place. The stranger lifted his head and leaned forward into the sunlight—the aristocratic nose, the lips, nearly unrecognizable without the sneer, the gray eyes gazing unseeingly, the pale flutter of the eyelashes and eyebrows—

"_Malfoy_?" Harry gasped, disbelieving.

Draco Malfoy started, and ink splattered over the tabletop. His hand quickly crumpled the parchment into a ball, and then he looked up with guarded eyes, lips curled angrily. "Who's there?" he demanded, voice shrill with—fear?

Harry felt his heart beating a hole through his chest. The gray eyes darted like birds before stopping at a spot above Harry's frame of vision, where Harry knew his face and sightless eyes to be.

"_You_," Malfoy hissed, his voice still edged with apprehension. "You, in the portrait. You weren't there before—you're spying on me, aren't you?"

Harry flinched slightly, even though that angry gray stare and the curled snarl of the thin lips seemed to be directed slightly above his head. He finally found his voice. "No… I—"

"You _were_." Harry noticed Malfoy's face gaining a slight tinge of pink, the eyes widened instead of narrowed. "You're one of Dumbledore's spies, aren't you? Aren't you? _Look_ at me when I'm talking!"

"You're wrong," Harry said, feeling his voice contrast hoarsely to Malfoy's higher-pitched accusations. "I—I am blind."

Malfoy's face changed a bit, and Harry realized that it was a slight edge of doubt. "You lie," Malfoy retorted.

"I am not lying," Harry said, though it was not entirely the truth. "I am blind."

Malfoy frowned, seemingly torn. Then he raised his hands and held them above the frame of vision, up close to where Harry knew his face was, and clapped sharply.

"So you are blind," said Malfoy, and Harry could see the tension suddenly drain from other boy's face, the sneer disappear and the curl of hate unfurl. It was a startling transformation. In the space of a heartbeat, the Malfoy heir became almost unrecognizable.

There was a pause. Harry noticed Malfoy's grip on the parchment relax slightly, the knuckles no longer paper-white, the gray eyes less brittle. Then a frown appeared. "How did you know it was me?"

Harry opened his mouth, his mind groping for an answer. "I… guessed."

The eyes darkened suspiciously. "You guessed?"

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. _Perhaps I should simply tell him the truth_, he thought, when suddenly his frame of vision shifted—the snake moved its head. White dissolved the colors in the mind, and Harry found himself, for the first time, feeling that sense of drowning as Malfoy's face vanished into a blank mist of disembodied sounds.

Malfoy started, shifting away abruptly from the table. "You've got a snake around your hand!" he barked.

_Is he scared of snakes?_ Harry wondered, a bit puzzled. "It won't hurt me," Harry explained. "And it can't hurt you."

"_Little cowards, the lot of them_," the snake hissed lazily. "_It seems as though the Slytherin house has lost all its bravado_."

Harry felt a spark of amusement at the comment, even as he felt—to his utter surprise—a pang of indignant resentment, as though the remark had offended him. _But I'm not even a Slytherin!_ he thought. A voice replied: _No, but you are the Heir of Slytherin_.

"Not _hurt_ you?" Malfoy's voice still wavered with apprehension. "I—" He stopped. "You're a portrait," he muttered sullenly. "Of course you can't be hurt by whatever is in the portraits already. Everyone knows that."

Harry felt the snake crawl up over the sleeves of his arm and find its way around his shoulders. "Yes, that's true," he said, as a silence fell over them. It was a rather uncomfortable silence. Harry could help but stagger at how surrealistic the situation was: he, Harry Potter, now the Heir of Slytherin, facing the heir of the Malfoy family from a portrait. _And this is not simply Malfoy_, Harry thought. _It is a boy who hates his father, who wishes the world would not see him as a spoiled brat_. A heartbeat. _I know him now_, Harry realized reluctantly. _I've read the innermost his confusion, what he hides behind his sneer and his loneliness, and I_… It was his responsibility now. He felt another weight settle on him.

"Who are you anyway?" Malfoy asked, after a pause.

"I'm—" Harry floundered, grasping for an answer.

"_Say you're Heimerich_," the snake hissed suddenly.

"What—no!"

"What?" Malfoy echoed, sounding confused.

Harry faltered. "I'm—call me Gwalchgwyn."

Malfoy was silent for a moment. "Gwalchgwyn," he repeated. "That sounds Welsh."

"It is," said Harry, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. _White hawk_, he thought, remembering the heritage Slytherin had told him. The name had come out suddenly, as if by its own volition. "And… your name?"

Malfoy sniffed. "You already knew. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

"I didn't know, not your first name, at least," Harry said. Somehow, the silence was frostier than it had been. "I don't know anything about you," Harry lied hesitantly.

"Well, you know I'm a _Malfoy_," Malfoy spat. "Isn't that enough?"

"No," Harry replied honestly. "And I only know your name. And that you're… well, have lots of money—"

"Filthy rich, you mean," Malfoy interrupted harshly.

Harry hesitated. Since when had calling someone 'rich' become as touchy a business as calling someone 'poor'? "Yes. But it's like—it's the same with—anyone. Who's more of a name than a person." _Like Harry_. "You can't know a person just by their name, or by their father." He stopped abruptly.

The silence was unbearably tense, reverberating with the words Harry now wished he hadn't said. They hung there, naked as the unclothed moon. He wanted to break the silence, to talk about _something_ so that they could start pretending nothing had been said—but what could he talk about? _Quidditch?_ he thought desperately.

"You look a lot like Severus."

Harry started violently, felt his heart hammer away in his chest. "W-what?"

A pause. "I said, you look a lot like Professor Snape."

_Breathe_. "Oh."

"You look like him a lot, you know," Malfoy said again. Harry swallowed hard, again, hearing the tightly coiled suspicion in the other boy's voice. _He can't know_, Harry thought, mind jumbled by panic.

"I might be related to him—distantly," said Harry, hesitantly. "I don't really know because I've… forgotten. One forgets things when one becomes a portrait." _Everyone knows that_.

"I see," Malfoy said coolly.

Harry shifted. "You called him… by his first name."

"Severus, you mean?" Malfoy queried. "Oh, that's because he lets me. He _likes_ me, unlike any of the other stupid teachers here—" He stopped abruptly. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this," he ended tightly, sulkily.

"Oh," said Harry. _He lets me. He _likes _me._ The words whirled in his mind, relentless and inexorable, and suddenly, Harry felt an anguished jab of longing and the white-hot iron stab of jealousy. _He lets me. He _likes _me_—_Draco Malfoy_. Harry felt his throat tie itself into a knot, felt a painful aching at the back of his eyes. _Why? Why not _me_? I—I tried so hard, I wished, I_— He broke off, reminding himself with an empty, empty hollowness, that it didn't matter what he wished. It didn't matter at all. And it was no wonder, really, that his father hated him so much—was disgusted by him. He was such a—such a pathetic, freak, a weak little—he—

"Well," Malfoy said, "I should go now. I've got schoolwork to do."

Harry nodded distractedly.

"Strange, you don't seem like a portrait," Malfoy said, a bit hesitantly. "You're… different. Somehow."

"Oh," Harry said, trying to pay attention to what Malfoy was saying.

"Good bye, then," said Malfoy. "_Ffarwel_."

Harry felt a reluctant smile form momentarily on his face. "And you. _Yn iach_." He remained silent and listened to the sound of Malfoy's footsteps leaving the room.

"_So you know who the mysterious stranger is_," the snake hissed.

Harry nodded. "_Yes_," he answered wearily. Malfoy. Of all the people it could be… But it wasn't anyone's fault, and Malfoy—it was foolish to think Malfoy was just a spiteful, spoiled brat. He was more.

_He's someone who's allowed to call his potions professor 'Severus_,' thought Harry, and felt, again, that faint aching at the back of his eyes.

-

-

-


	13. Words Between Worlds

_A/N: Once again, Procyon Black deserves boundless gratitude for finding all those sly and slippery mistakes. _

* * *

**  
Chapter 13: Words Between Worlds**

_Son_, _said his father. Bachgen._

_He heard his father's voice from where he was standing in front of the grandfather clock. The words filled him with a strange and desperate urgency that burned. He had to get in—he had to find his father—he needed to—because he was his father's son, him, him, him, not that boy who was inside the room._

_He couldn't see anything besides the whiteness, but he could feel the pendulum, swinging to and fro, to and fro. He tried to clear his mind of the urgency, to calm himself and focus on the rhythm, to match it and to touch the spot on the grandfather clock to enter his father's room. But the rhythm seemed as slippery as a fish, changing every time he reached out his hand. To andfro, it went, toand frotoand f r o to and_

_Son, said his father. Bachgen. Bachgen._

_He was near tears in his frustration, trying to find the rhythm (to and froto andfro), but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. The pendulum kept changed its movements, one moment sluggish and nearly suspended in time, another moment flashing like a deadly blade, constantly denying him access._

_Father, said a voice. He knew the voice. It belonged to a blond-haired Slytherin with pale, aristocratic features. Draco Malfoy. Father, said the boy._

_Harry thrust out his hand. He couldn't wait—he couldn't, even though he knew what would happen. He felt the pendulum falling, falling, felt the instant in which the pendulum was a hair's breath from his skin, and at last, it touched him, and the world exploded_—

He sat up, body soaked in sweat. For a moment, he simply breathed. Then he exhaled deeply and flopped back down.

This was the third night he had dreamed this same dream, the _third_ time, for God's sake. Three times in three nights—or days, since he generally fell asleep some time in the dead of the night and woke when the sun hung high in the sky.

He got up, wishing there were some way he could take a shower. No matter how oily he felt his hair was or sweaty he felt, most of that grease and sweat magically disappeared, but he still felt dirty. Disgusting. Like filth.

He sighed again. _This nightmare is so—aggravating_, he thought, pacing. He wasn't stupid—he knew what it meant. Obviously he was jealous of Draco Malfoy. Obviously he was afraid the Malfoy Heir would suddenly become Snape's adopted son. Obviously he wasn't being rational. His fears were ridiculous. It was impossible to picture Malfoy and Snape in a familial embrace; he simply couldn't see Snape smiling at Malfoy—or smiling at all. Neither could he see Malfoy with glowing contentment on his fine-boned face.

On the other hand, he could hardly see anything in his imagination lately. Images had become scattered, like light through a prism. Memories were fading.

_Rationalize this_, Harry told himself. _Think. Don't rush in like an idiot Gryffindor_. From Malfoy's letter, it was pretty clear that the younger Malfoy was upset at the elder. From Malfoy's own mouth, Harry had heard the words, saying that Severus _liked_ him. But did that mean that Severus would suddenly claim Draco as his son?

_Of course not_, Harry thought, feeling somewhat relieved at his own thinking. _I'm being stupid. Worse, I'm being jealous. It's almost like a corny romance plot_. Brief images, fleeting memories came to his mind—mostly of Cho, sniffing and sobbing, red-eyed and teary. Harry shook his head. All that seemed so alien now. They belonged to a Harry who no longer existed.

_They belong to Harry Potter, golden son of the golden Gryffindor couple, not Harry, son of Snape_. A sudden gloom settled over him. Snape—who hated him. Who'd rather have Draco Malfoy for his son.

"Stop it!" he muttered to himself. God. He was being obsessive compulsive, his thoughts locked in inescapable cycles. Anyway, the notion of Snape adopting Malfoy was simply ludicrous. It was—

He stopped. _What if they were happy?_ he thought. _What if they did get along—what if Snape did adopt Malfoy as his son—and was happy_?

It was something he had never quite thought about before. He supposed that he would—that he'd be—happy for his father. He'd be happy for Malfoy, and for Snape. Yes, he would. He closed his eyes and felt a terrible wrenching at his heart.

"Why am I even thinking this?" he said aloud, annoyed. Firstly, it was ludicrous—and more importantly, it didn't matter at all if Snape hated him or loved him or adored him or loathed him. Either way, he had the prophecy on his shoulders, and he had to kill Voldemort, or get killed by Voldemort, the latter of which was by far more likely. _I wonder if Snape would accept James Potter's money, if I give it to him in my will_, thought Harry. _Do I even get to write a will? Maybe Dumbledore'd just scoop everything up and donate it to a fund for condemned orphans._

There was the sound of a door opening.

Harry was in the shadows of a corner within the blink of an eye. He knew he would be unseen; he knew because he had been unseen three times in three days.

_Coward_, he thought, the word lashing through his body like a whip of flame. _Coward_.

He listened to the intruder's breathing, at first loud and gradually softening. It was familiar by now. There was the soft thud of books being set on the desk, the door being firmly shut, the quite murmur of the locking charm, the scrape of wood against floor as a chair was pulled back, and—different this time—the slight hesitation before the intruder sat down with a rustle of robes.

The word ran through his mind: coward. Coward. _Coward_. It howled at him as he stood there, silently. He heard the turning of pages, the sound of restless shifting, a barely audible exhalation.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling numbness overtake him. It was his retreat, this numbness. His sanctuary. He felt suspended in time. Dimly he noticed that his nose itched, and that his shoulders itched a bit from his hair brushing them, and that his feet were uncomfortable. But it all seemed far, far away.

Malfoy gave a loud sigh. "Where is that idiot," he muttered.

_That's right, I am an idiot_, Harry thought. _A bigger one you won't ever see_.

There was another loud sigh, this one tinged with annoyance and frustration, and then Harry heard the harsh screech of the chair being pushed out. Someone approached. Harry shrank back, pressing himself against the wall though he knew he wouldn't be seen. He was too good at hiding.

Then Malfoy exhaled, long and tired and defeated. Then there was the sound of a book sliding into a book bag, heavy footsteps across the stone floor, the door opening, the door closing. Silence.

He unclenched his hand, roughly massaging the places where his nails had dug into his palm. _Perhaps_, he thought, _Malfoy will really be gone, gone for good. Perhaps he won't come back. He didn't wait as long this time_. He smiled bitterly. _Good one, Harry—you've successfully driven off the only one who might have been a friend_. He reviewed the thought and paused—Malfoy, a friend? Perhaps it was better this way; who knew what would happen when (for it was impossible to hide forever) Malfoy found out who he really was…

Harry shivered with disgust. Here he was, pretending to be altruistic and far-sighted, pretending to be considering the inevitable end of any possible connection they might have when it was just cowardice and jealousy that was driving him to hiding. He was a coward.

_Then leave_, he thought reluctantly. _Step back into the world of living_. Dread formed a pit at the bottom of his stomach. He shook himself. Why the reluctance? He'd have to return, sooner or later, for the world could not afford a cowardly Harry Potter.

He moved towards the painting within the painting. Here it was, a portal to the outside world. All it took was one step—one step forward…

He touched the frame of the painting. _Not here_, he thought. His heart was pounding and blood was pulsing in his ears. Air whispered past his ears as he darted into a different painting. Cold stone brushed his feet as he ran—long grass scraped his legs, water touched him.

He stopped at last when the desire to run left him. Stretching his senses for a moment, he recognized where he was: in the painting of a great tree out of which flowed a stream. He touched the tree, and his mind went back for a moment to the painting of the tree in the Chamber of Secrets, from which hung countless unborn snakes. He thought of Salazar Slytherin, who had given him his gifts and changed him so much, though he hadn't known it then.

The edge of the painting was near, mere steps away. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff—he _was_ standing on the edge, and once he leapt, he would fall—fall into a corridor in the Slytherin dungeons.

He took another step. There was nobody in the passageway. Silence deafened him. All he could hear was the _thud-thud, thud-thud_ of his heart. He realized he was trembling.

_Just another step_, he thought. _Just another. Just another. One more_.

He did take another—and abruptly felt it: the boundary of magic that separated the world of paintings from the world of the living. It took him by surprise, and he stopped short, frozen like an animal hearing the sound of its death approaching.

_Just another_. _Just another just another._

His legs wouldn't obey him. He swallowed hard, felt faint. It was only a thin sheen between him and the rest of the world—just a thin sheen, that was all, he wouldn't be a coward, he was determined not to be a coward—

_one more just an_—

_jus_

His mind clouded with panic. He couldn't do this—he couldn't—he heard Snape's face, imagined it twisting with disgust and loathing and fury, telling him to leave, telling him that he was unworthy of being his father's son—he heard Malfoy's self-satisfied voice saying how Severus _liked_ him—

Numbness. He was frozen in place, frozen in time. Nothing reached him.

Silence.

Footsteps.

Harry darted away from the edge of the painting, instinctively hiding behind the great tree. The sound of footsteps approached, and he recognized it with a sinking heart—Draco Malfoy. For a wild instant, he thought to fling himself out from behind the tree, to be _seen_—but he didn't. He couldn't. The footsteps drew near, passed, and faded away.

For what seemed a long time, he could only concentrate on his breathing, the harsh in and out of air as his chest rose and fell. Then he turned around and set his forehead and hands on the trunk of the tree.

He was a failure. There was no way to deny it, no way to see past it. He was a _failure_—he couldn't even step out of the world of the paintings to face his destiny, his fate—he was hiding here—he was a _coward_—one worse than Peter Pettigrew, for while Pettigrew had betrayed his closest friends, he, Harry Potter, was betraying the world. He was a coward. A freak—unwanted, disgusting. Cowardly.

A sob wrenched through his throat. He clenched his hands on the rough bark of the tree, felt it digging into his skin—he pulled, dragged his hands down, feeling his skin break and the pain bloom in his mind, hitting him like a drug.

_Oh God, I'm such a coward_, he thought hollowly. _I'm such an unbelievable coward_. His hands throbbed, but it wasn't enough—he tugged his hands down some more, reveling in the physical agony. It hurt, oh God, it hurt so much, so much, but it numbed some of the anguish in his soul.

He let go of the tree and felt his palms and fingers. It felt warm, wet. He was bleeding, and he knew his blood would be smeared on the trunk of the tree. For a moment, he shivered. He was glad he was blind, that he wouldn't be able to see the palms of his hands. The sight of blood and gore had always made him feel a bit uneasy.

He was exhausted. His feet dragged heavily as he made his way back to the painting of the cell. He held his hands at his sides, the palms facing away from his robes so that they would be stained. Perhaps the magic of the portraits would heal his hands, or make all stains go away, but he didn't want his hands healed. The bed was soft and as he lay on it and let his mind wander free, he concentrated on the soothing pain. He felt a tiny, tiny bit absolved—as though a measure of his soul had become pure.

qpqpqp

"Ginny?"

"I'm fine, Neville."

"You don't look fine. I—"

"Go away, Neville Longbottom! I can't understand you! I can't understand _any_ of you."

"Ginny?"

"Go away."

"I'm sorry, Ginny. But I can't tell you. It would go against… against whatever it was that put me in Gryffindor."

"Gryffindors are supposed to be loyal. Gryffindors are supposed to be good friends."

"Harry's hasn't stopped being my friend—"

"Oh yeah? Then why am _I_ the only one defending him when Malfoy sneers and simpers and says the most horrible things? Like—'Oooh, Potter's the new Dark Lord now, he's going to betray his House and friends and family and cast the Cruciatus on everyone.'"

"I… it's not a good idea to respond—"

"Stop making excuses. You know what I mean. Not responding, I can understand, but… what you're doing is… is…"

"Not acting angry enough?"

"Neville, be serious! You seem troubled, as though some part of you actually _believes_ that crap. And Hermione, too! Not to mention _Ronald_."

"I have tried to get Ron to stop being like that, Ginny, but it's not working."

"No really. It was like trying to drill a hole in a tree with your fingers, wasn't it?"

"Well… I mean, he—"

"You don't have to excuse or defend him. Ever since summer started, he's become an unbelievable _git_. He's snarking worse than Harry last year one moment, and then he's smiling over the silliest thing."

"Might it be what happened to him in the Department of Secrets?"

"He's been in treatment for that for months now, and if nothing comes of it, I'm inclined to think it's permanent."

"I'm sorry, Ginny."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about—unless you'll tell me whatever it is that you and Hermione are hiding, and you're obviously _not_."

"Er. Sorry."

"That's okay. But d'you know what makes me really mad? Besides Malfoy and Ronald? It's those people who want Harry back just so that he can get rid of Voldemort for them. Like Hannah Abbot…"

"Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Hannah Abbott…"

"Even _Dean_."

"Is that why you two broke up?"

"Yeah. And because—well, and because of other things. You know what, Neville? I think Ron's beginning to be like that too."

"Believing that Harry's sole purpose of life is to get rid of Voldemort?"

"Yeah. It's killing me. I mean—isn't he supposed to be Harry's best friend? The bloke who would always be by Harry's side?"

"The bloke who Harry would risk his life for."

"I still think he would."

"Harry?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Harry felt a balloon of pain rising in his chest. He knew without a doubt that he would risk his life for Ron, even if Ron hated him as much as he hated Malfoy. It wouldn't matter if Ron never knew about it. But he knew that he _couldn't_—his life was (he shivered) more _valuable_ than Ron's, because Ron never had the Prophecy on him. Ron was a spare.

Ginny shifted and sighed. "Sorry. I complain a lot now. There's just so much that's wrong in the world."

Neville's voice was quiet. It was different from the voice Harry had been used to, and Harry was glad. Neville had grown, matured. "I know."

"I've never seen you complain, and you—well…" Ginny trailed off awkwardly.

"It's all right." Harry heard the sound of robes rustling, and knew Neville had stood. "It's time for class."

"What do you have?"

"Defence."

"Oh God," Ginny groaned, "Caius Cinna?"

Neville sighed. "Yeah."

"Poor you. See you then."

Harry heard them leaving the room. After a moment's hesitation, he darted into a different portrait, following the sounds of Neville's even footsteps as the Gryffindor made his way to the Defence classroom.

Ginny and Neville's words weren't anything new. As he had flitted from painting to painting, he had overheard things, things that would freeze him in his tracks, for he couldn't help listening. _They want me back to throw my life before Voldemort, and they're right_, Harry thought. _But I'm too much a coward to do so_.

He absently rubbed the palms of his hands, and then winced. He had no idea what his palms looked like, but all physical signs of broken skin and bleeding palms had disappeared after he had fallen asleep, hands facing upwards at his sides as he lay like a corpse on his bed.

Still, he could feel it. As he touched his palms, squeezing a bit until he shivered, he could feel the pain—almost phantomlike, but still very much there.

"Oh no," Neville suddenly muttered under his breath and broke into a hurried trot.

Harry followed, darting effortlessly from painting to painting. A moment later he understood: the escalating voices were all too familiar.

"…without Potter to play favorite, don't even dream about making the team, Weasley," Malfoy sneered, his voice echoing down the corridor. "But what am I saying? _Please_, be on the team—Gryffindor could use a Keeper like you."

Slytherins laughed.

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Ron barked. "Potter had nothing to do with it!" Harry flinched. Ever since that terrible night when he had told Ron and Hermione his secret, he hadn't heard Ron's voice—but now, hearing it again, and hearing it say _Potter_ the way he said _Malfoy_… it was like rediscovering a wound that hadn't yet closed and that time would never fully heal.

"Ron!" Neville shouted. "Don't."

"I got on the team last year all by myself," Ron snarled, seemingly not to have heard Neville. "It'd nothing to do with Potter—nothing!"

"_Ron_." Hermione's voice rang clearly, and Ron fell silent.

Malfoy chuckled. "Your mudblood girlfriend has you on a tight leash, doesn't she?"

Ron made a choked noise. "Why you—"

"Don't!" Hermione snapped. She sounded weary and irritated, strangely old. "Just shut up, Ron."

Harry swallowed. What had happened? Hermione sounded so tired and jaded, as though she hadn't slept in my many nights—and the way she talked to Ron… There was warmth there.

Ron made a growling sound. "I _HATE _POTTER!" he roared suddenly.

Harry froze.

There was an uneasy silence before Malfoy chuckled lowly. "Some Gryffindor you are… though I completely understand… your sentiments…"

Harry was hurting. He clenched his palms furiously, squeezing his eyes shut and his clenching his jaw as the pain clouded his mind, dulling it like a drug.

"Too bad you were five years too late in realizing it, Wea—"

He stopped.

Harry suddenly had the feeling of being watched.

"What're you looking at, Malfoy?" Ron asked derisively. "Cat got your tongue?"

Harry felt a chill run down his spine as realization hit him. _I've been seen_, he thought. He could feel numerous gazes fall on him and he stood, frozen, facing outside. He didn't dare breathe. He waited, expecting any moment to be recognized—but the only recognition came from Malfoy's silence.

"N-Nothing," Malfoy managed. He quickly recovered. "Just shut up, Weasley. Don't resort to hackneyed clichés when you're trying to insult someone. It reflects badly on what education your parents provided for you."

Harry frowned. Malfoy sounded—restrained. The bite was out of his voice, as though he were holding back. _Holding back in front of me?_ Harry wondered, bewildered.

"Oh yeah?" Ron shot back. "_Your_ father's in Azkaban, and he's going to stay there until some dementor sucks out his soul—"

"He won't!" Malfoy shouted. "You lie!"

"_Ron_!" Neville hissed, but Ron continued— "and when that happens, I'll laugh, Malfoy, I'll _laugh_ in your _face_—"

"NO!" Hermione shouted, and Harry felt a small swell of magic—

Suddenly there was an answering flash of magic, and Harry shivered at the unexpected power within that burst. _Who is it?_ Harry wondered.

He felt it moments before he heard the voice: the presence, which he realized he had felt at the back of his mind but had managed to go ignored—the presence that was like a knot in the grain, an anomaly in the texture of the castle's magic. He didn't know what it reminded him of, but it didn't feel—right.

"Dueling in the corridors? My, my. Twenty points from Slytherin for your indiscretion, Malfoy."

Ron sniggered.

Harry frowned. The voice sounded high, too high, but also very old.

"Come in now," the voice continued. "We'll be covering some of the most interesting aspects of countering Curses today…"

_Caius Cinna_, thought Harry. _The defence professor_. He groped for a way into the classroom, and to his surprise, he found one.

A few seconds later, he found himself in a painting he'd never been in. It was a painting he'd never even thought could exist—at least, by magical standards; he felt swirls of colors around him and upon him, but there was no ground, no earth, no sky. He was floating.

_What an odd painting_, Harry thought.

There suddenly came a loud snapping sound, like a ruler hitting a table.

"Malfoy!" Caius Cinna barked. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing, sir," Malfoy muttered.

"Certainly not at my lesson. Five points from Slytherin for your inattentiveness."

_He's as unfair to Malfoy as Snape was to me_, Harry thought as Ron laughed out loud, a grating, sing-song sort of laugh.

For an instant, Harry felt a surge of resentment and anger at Ron, a feeling backed by a sense of loss. Where had Ron gone—his Ron? Even at the height of his hatred of Malfoy, Ron had never acted like this. And Malfoy didn't deserve this; Harry knew how it felt—he knew it, and knew how badly it could cut you down until all you felt was anger and misery and loneliness.

_Malfoy hasn't gotten any friends_, Harry realized suddenly.

"There are many ways to countering curses," Cinna began. "Does anybody know?"

There was a silence.

"Yes, Finnigan?"

"Counter Curses?"

"Wrong. Anyone else?" There was a pause. Then, with a sneer, "Malfoy?"

"Dodging and blocking," Malfoy said in a neutral tone.

Cinna was quiet for a moment. "Yes, I would expect a Slytherin to know," he said coolly, sounding rather displeased. "Dodging and blocking. Counter Curses expend energy, must be specific, and require careful aiming. Only a fool will use them when he can dodge or block the curse."

His voice became stern and harsh. "Remember—there is not one curse in this world—not one—that cannot be countered by dodging or blocking."

There was a silence.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"But, Professor, what about the Killing Cur—"

"Ahhh, the _Avada Kedavra_," Cinna crowed. "Tell me—can you dodge out of the way?"

"Yes, but—"

"If there is, say, a statue between it and you, can the curse be blocked?"

Hermione fell silent for a moment. "Yes. I see, professor. Another point—what if the attacker uses a curse that is wide-ranged?"

"Good, good," Cinna said cheerfully. "Wide-ranged. That puts a kink on dodging, doesn't it? But it smears the power of the curse over a large area. A ranged _Avada_ cannot kill you—what was that, Malfoy?"

Harry felt a tinge of shock. All he had heard, with his sharpened hearing, was a mutter he had vaguely recognized as Malfoy's voice. _Who is this person_? Harry wondered.

"Nothing," Malfoy said stiffly.

"Speak up, boy!" Cinna barked. "I want to hear it."

"I was just remarking that certain individuals can render a fatal ranged _Avada_."

_Like Voldemort_, Harry thought, and shivered. He was sure that was whom Malfoy had been referring to. _Great, one ranged Avada, and I'll be dead_.

"Certain individuals, yes," Cinna said, voice dropping. "You need not be coy, Malfoy. We all know why your father rots in Azkaban."

Ron immediately burst out laughing.

Harry felt his stomach sicken, like milk curdling. He strained his ears for any sound from Malfoy, but he could hear none. A part of him thought that he should be glad Malfoy was getting his comeuppance at last—but he knew how it felt to be targeted and alone, and the memory of that pain made all selfish vindication seem hollow and dead.

_Did he have to go through this every day_? Harry wondered.

"Now, ranged curses," Cinna continued. "Another method commonly used is spelling curses to track the enemy…"

The lesson passed rapidly. Harry listened, enthralled. Caius Cinna, despite his faults, was an excellent instructor, Harry admitted reluctantly. With every concept, Harry felt as though new floodgates of possibilities had opened. Memories from Dumbledore's duel with Voldemort came to his mind—and it all connected, trickling through his mind.

"And now," Cinna said, sounding like a cat as it crept towards a mouse, "we shall have a little… _demonstration_. Malfoy! Stand up."

Harry heard the rustle of cloth as slowly, the Slytherin stood.

"Wand out!"

Harry listened, transfixed.

A few minutes later, Ron was snorting with laughter while smothered giggles were rolling about on the Gryffindor side of the classroom. The Slytherin side was silent.

Harry was relieved—terribly relieved—that neither Hermione nor Neville had been laughing. The catcalls and jokes were like the sounds of a ring of savage animals, joined in a mindless desire to ridicule and abase. A sudden image came to Harry's mind: of a bleeding man, lying in the center of a ring of black-robed men and women. He shivered. It was all too easy to become a Voldemort, and easier yet to become a Pettigrew.

"Get up, boy," Cinna commanded.

Malfoy's breaths echoed harshly. They should have been covered by the catcalls of the class, but they reverberated like beating wings in Harry's head—tight, shallow, pained, biting back anger and tears and pain.

"You are worse than even your father," Cinna commented in a bored tone. "Class excused."

The class broke into excited chatter, as though nothing had happened. Harry unclenched his palms. He hadn't even noticed the pain.

"Watch where you're going, Malfoy!" one of the Gryffindors—it sounded like Dean—shouted.

Harry moved swiftly, slipping out of the portrait in the classroom. Outside in the corridors, he could hear the sounds more clearly—the stumbling footsteps, the haphazard flop of the book bag, the gasp of breaths holding back tears—

Harry followed the sound, moving through portraits like a shadow. They were heading towards the dungeons, towards the cell, towards refuge— Harry wondered for a moment if Malfoy was aware of being followed, wondered if Malfoy was running away from him, but the moment passed and they were back in the room where they had first met.

Malfoy collapsed into the chair and began sobbing. But, to Harry, it was an alien sound—a sharp gasp, a tenuous silence broken by the thin exhalation of breath, and then the sharp gasp, accompanied by the sniffing of a stuffy nose.

Harry swallowed several times before he brought himself to speak, his voice scratchy from disuse: "Malfoy?"

Malfoy started and knocked into the desk. "Gwalchgwyn!" he accused, nose stuffed. He was silent for a moment as he gained his composure. "What do you want?"

Harry searched for the right words to say. What was he here for? He didn't know. He didn't know, but he knew he had to be here. "I… saw you, back then—"

"Come to—come to provoke me some more, have you?" Malfoy demanded angrily.

"No! Of course not—"

"So you've decided to hang around when everyone else has had their fill of provoking me, eh? Where _were_ you?" The last three words came out accusingly, and Harry could hear the raw hurt in them.

He couldn't muster any words for a moment. "I was—not here," Harry said. _Liar,_ he thought. "I was somewhere else." _Hiding from you_. He squeezed his palms for a moment. "But I'll be here, from now on," he added, not really knowing why.

Malfoy snorted. "You know what, _Gwalchgwyn_?" he sneered. "That means I'll know how to avoid you then. You're a hypocrite just like them—just like those goddamned Gryffindors, saying one thing and doing another!"

"_No_," Harry managed. "That's not—I swear I—"

"I bet you were laughing at me behind my back, I bet you thought it was pretty funny too, didn't you?" Malfoy's was shouting now, his voice filling the room. "That's why you were there watching, wasn't it?—because you're _just_ like them, because you hate me because of my father and because, without my father, I'll be _poor_—just like Weasley!"

"You've got it all wrong, Malfoy," Harry said as Malfoy seethed. He spoke haltingly, picking his words with care. "I have never and will never judge anybody based on their wealth or parentage. It—it's still an important thing, but I—"

"Judge me all you want," Malfoy interrupted. "I don't care! Even if my father doesn't go crazy after being in Azkaban, he'll change—and he's already changed. It's like the dementors ate out his heart and turned him into a shell. You know _nothing_ about what it's like for my father to be gone—nothing!"

A kind of anger had been building in him, an anger he hadn't felt in a long time. It was an icy kind of anger, creeping through him and scorching and burning him so coldly it pulled words out of the chaos of thoughts and emotions. "I would trade places with you, Draco Malfoy. In fact, I would trade places with you even if it meant that I'd vanish and become nothing after a single day."

Malfoy sniffed loudly. "What are you talking about?"

"I had a father, too," Harry said. His throat locked for a moment, but he forced it open. The anger was still there; the pain as he clenched his hands was still there. "I had a father once, and I tried very hard to make him love me. I tried so hard." _So hard. So very hard_. "But it didn't matter because he hated me anyway. And the thing was, he hated me from the beginning. I'd be you for a day, Draco Malfoy. Because I know your father loved you, even if—even if he seemed to have impossible expectations. I'd—"

His voice failed. He took a deep breath and tried to make the aching at the back of his eyes go away.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy said in a very small voice. "You must think I'm a spoiled brat, don't you?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not your fault you were born rich. And it's not as though I'm not spoiled, either. I had—it wasn't as though I was… unloved. I had my mother's love, and my—adopted father's. But it wasn't ever the same, you know? Especially when the world changed, when everything was suddenly different…"

"I know," said Malfoy. And Harry fell silent, because Malfoy did know.

Malfoy sighed. "Now I feel so stupid for ranting," he said, a bit sheepishly. "You're not like the other paintings. I mean, you remember almost everything, for one, and you're not like a stupid parrot the way most paintings are."

"I am different," Harry said, and didn't continue. He hoped Malfoy wouldn't ask.

Malfoy didn't.

"Why are you called Gwalchgwyn?" the blond asked. "I know it means 'white hawk,' because I read it in some ancient book in my family's library. It was about some fellow who terrorized the purebloods about a thousand years back."

Harry straightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. Apparently he'd come around at dawn and leave bloody handprints on the walls—one handprint for one person he was going to kill. Then at dusk, no matter where you were hiding or how far you ran, he'd find you and kill you by nailing you to a tree."

"Wow," said Harry, remembering the images he had dreamt in Slytherin's Chamber. But they were hazy now, as though they were no more than imaginings of myths and legends. "That's a pretty painful way to die."

"Not really," Malfoy said. "He'd usually nail them straight through the heart, so they'd die almost at once. I don't think he really wanted his victims to suffer. He just wanted them dead."

"What happened to him?" Harry asked after a moment's hesitation.

"He was caught eventually, by Salazar Slytherin," said Malfoy, a hint of pride in his voice. "It was quite bloody, actually. They say that Slytherin cut out the white hawk's heart and drank the heartblood."

_That's not far from the truth_, Harry thought, a bit queasily. "So what happened to Slytherin in the end? I mean…" He tried to rephrase his question, suddenly very conscious that he was talking to a full-blooded Slytherin. But then, he was half-Slytherin himself, and Malfoy had no reason to suspect he had a drop of Gryffindor blood in him. "None of the portraits know what happened to Slytherin after he left Hogwarts and entered the Black family."

"Well, people have all sorts of ideas," Malfoy said without missing a beat. "Slytherin left the Black family for an unknown reason, but some books say that he went into the east to spread his teachings; others say he went to Wales and settled there. There was a faction in the late nineteenth century that believed that Slytherin would be reborn when the world was pure enough."

"Interesting," Harry remarked, impressed. "You're quite a history buff, aren't you?"

"I… suppose so," Malfoy said hesitantly. The silence hung in the air between them. "Father doesn't really approve, and Mother doesn't know the difference between Mordred and Nicholas Flamel. Father says I should study Arithmancy and Potions because that _mudblood_ keeps getting higher marks than I do." His voice suddenly became plaintive. "But it's because she's a total teacher's pet, and Father simply won't believe me when I tell him that!"

"I hardly think she's every teacher's pet," Harry said coolly.

"Fine," Malfoy snapped. "Snape hates her, but he's the only one, and her marks in Potions are still better than mine."

"But your marks in Binns are higher, aren't they?"

Malfoy snorted derisively. "Nobody gives a damn about Binns."

"But you love history."

"But Father disapproves."

Harry paused. He was on the verge of saying something he knew he'd regret, something angry, but he managed to stop himself in time.

"Your father may disapprove," Harry said carefully, "but there's always a choice." _Is there?_ his mind challenged the moment he fell silent. Did _he_ have a choice? He—Harry Potter, Harry Snape? _Maybe it's a choice with a foregone conclusion_, Harry thought. Another thought made itself known, this one striking some hidden chord deep inside him: _Maybe that's how Draco feels. It's not his fault he hasn't been burdened with fixing the world. Perhaps his father is the world to him_. And that he could easily understand.

Malfoy sighed sullenly. "You won't understand," he muttered. "Just forget about it."

Harry shook his head. "What I said is… only half-right. I think it's like… being blind. Where you simply _can't_ see what choices you have, what roads you might've taken, until it's too late. Or maybe like rushing down the river without being able to see where you're heading. I suppose that's how it sometimes feels like."

"Yeah," Malfoy agreed softly, and they were silent again. But it was a comfortable silence, and Harry remembered—from so long ago—the silences he'd shared with Ron and Hermione. The memory made him feel a bit nostalgic, a bit mad at Ron, and more than a bit sad, but it also made him feel… He shook his head mentally. _Friends with Malfoy? I'd never have guessed_.

"You're smiling," said Malfoy, breaking the quiet.

"Am I?" said Harry.

Malfoy sounded amused. "You are."

_And so I am_, thought Harry, almost surprised by the fact. His hands were relaxed at his sides, the injured palms facing the soft folds of his robe. _So I am_.


	14. The Leave Taking

_A/N: Kudos once again to Procyon Black, who betaed this not once, but twice. Yes, it's 'fy' and not some random thing I made up in China.  
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Chapter 14: The Leave-Taking**

"The White Hawk was a murderer."

They were in their room, the late afternoon rays drifting in through the windows. Harry ran his hands over the cool sheets of the bed he was sitting on, and he turned towards Draco.

"He was a murderer," said Harry, "I won't deny that. But that's only half of it. His victims were also murderers, and

_there was blood in the air, blood hot and steaming in the cold morning air and the red blood was on the black gargoyle and the gargoyle was unflinching and unmoving as the blood splattered its face_

"Killed whom?"

Silence stretched for a long moment. Harry relaxed his grip on the sheets and continued slowly, hesitantly, the flash of red on black still fresh in his mind. "Muggleborns. Wizards and witches with Muggle ancestry. Muggles who dared to mingle with wizard-folk."

"Oh. Well, it's not real witches and wizards then."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean 'real' witches and wizards? I know you mean pureblood," he continued when Draco began to interrupt, "but that's an invalid definition. A hybrid dog doesn't mean it's 'unreal.'"

"Magic flows in blood," Draco replied immediately. Harry could hear the sneer slipping into the Malfoy heir's voice. "Take rare magical talents like Animagi or Metamorphmagi They occur more often when the bloodlines are kept pure."

"A witch or wizard doesn't need to be an Animagus or a Metamorphmagusto be real. And you get weird—problems when you keep interbreeding the pureblood lines. Like Belarius the Blue, who had a strange obsession with goblins and

_the blue eyes took in the blood gushing from the slashed throat and running in rivulets along the cracks of the flagstone floor. Let Dumbledore have a nice surprise, the blue eyes glinted, for the seeds have been sown, and what needed to be done has been done, and soon it will be a time to reap_

"That's not often."

The sound of his heartbeat seemed thunderous, and he had to swallow the taste of fear before he could force out his voice. "What?"

"I said that it's not often that—mistakes occur, like Belarius the Blue."

"Animagi and Metamorphmagi aren't often either."

"Still."

Harry paused a moment, trying to summon the right words. He reminded himself that Draco was still the heir to an ancient pureblood family, that Draco was still—and would always be—a Malfoy. "I don't agree with you. I believe that Muggleborns are just as much a witch or wizard as purebloods, and Muggles are just as much a human as a wizard or a witch. But I'm not going to force you to change your mind."

"Fine then," Draco muttered.

They were silent for a moment, their conversation dried.

"Draco," Harry said at last, haltingly. "Can you—do something for me?"

Draco was quiet for a moment: a pause of Slytherin calculation, thought Harry. "What?"

"Can you make sure nobody goes into the corridor outside the headmaster's office? You know, the corridor with the gargoyle." Harry added, when Draco was still silent: "Just for tonight. Please?"

"Why?"

"I can't say—I don't even know, for sure," Harry said. It was half-lie, half-truth. "Can you manage it?"

Harrywas aware of a shuffling of cloth, and he wondered for a terrible moment if Draco was just going to get up and leave. But then, with solemnity: "You have my word, Gwalchgwyn."

Harry smiled quickly, uneasily, relief flashing and disappearing in a murky haze of turbid emotions. "Thank you. And don't go there yourself," he added hurriedly. "If you can only manage by staying in the corridor—"

"I'll manage. Don't worry about it."

"Thank you," Harry said again. He hesitated. "You have grey eyes, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Draco replied after a bemused pause. "Why do you ask?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing. As long as your eyes aren't blue—"

"Dumbledore has blue eyes," Draco said. "Goyle does too."

And Ron, thought Harry. There were others, but he had to think hard: the memory of the color blue was fading; he had to remember sky, Ravenclaw, one of Trelawney's favorite shawls, eyes

_the blue eyes followed the trickle of blood down the stairs and up the walls like the cracks of a mosaic, tracing his Mark on the wall of Dumbledore's front door_

Harry swallowed.

"I'll see you sometime tomorrow, then," said Draco.

Harry nodded. "Bye." Steps receding, and Harry heard the concerned hesitation in them. He was grateful for it in the space of those few seconds, but then the door closed and it was silent. Silent as a snowscape of a dead earth.

He stood. Turning, he slipped into an adjacent painting, making sure that Draco had gone the other way. Harry didn't know where his feet were carrying him, but it didn't matter. His mind was awhirl with thoughts that gnawed his sanity like rats.

Someone, someone was going to die. Tonight, in the hall outside Dumbledore's office, and there was going to be blood _splashing over the motionless head of the gargoyle_, so much blood _moving like a living thing over the barren walls and tracing a skull and a serpent_, and the killer had blue eyes _watching_.

Harry stopped. His body was as tense as a drawn bow, and his heart was heavy—heavy with the weight of knowledge and responsibility that he couldn't embrace. It was a shameful kind of guilt: the guilt of a coward who knew a disaster was going to strike, but was too frightened to say a thing.

A little breeze shivered over his face. He lifted a hand and felt the rough bark of the tree. A phantom moment, and he felt each thorny ridge and knot burning and tearing and eating the flesh of his palm. He wished for a brief moment that he could see, to see if there was any blood on the tree. There probably wasn't. There was none on his hands—none that he could feel, or smell, or taste. Even the snake hadn't noticed. When it had come a day ago, Harry had felt his heart paralyzed with fear: fear that the snake would somehow be able to detect the blood that should be there. But the snake had only remarked on how different the toilets were from the ones it remembered before slithering off again.

He took his hand away. It was a coward's way out, he told himself. Only selfish, cowardly people found relief through—things like this. He held his hands to his sides. Perhaps Draco would succeed. Perhaps nobody would die, and hispremonitions were warnings for a future that would be avoided.

He stepped back. Visions weren't always real—that he knew too well. Perhaps this one was a fake as well, just a little something the Dark Lord had sent to frighten him. Yes. That was it.

He turned. Telling himself that nobody would die _blood ran down the stairs_, he took a deep breath _the corpse lay still_ and left.

qpqpqp

He woke up and knew something was wrong.

He sat up in his bed. Sunlight fell across his face: the warm sunlight of a golden morning, but he hardly felt it. He held himself as still as possible, not daring to breathe. The stillness was like a moment of perfection, glinting in the morning glow, and moving even a hair's breadth would destroy it. He searched for that sense that told him something was wrong, searching and holding his breath as long as he could—

Then, like a ghost, he was gone, hurrying through the portraits as quietly as he could. All too soon he was there, in one of the portraits overlooking the corridor to the entrance into Dumbledore's office.

Nothing. Harry didn't know what he had expected: something, anything, but not this, the murmured breathing of sleeping portraits, as though nothing had happened.

_Damn it_, thought Harry. _Where's the snake when I need it?_ He moved into a different painting, wishing the stupid portraits would stop snoring so that he might listen properly—

A scream shattered the air. Then: books dropping to the ground, and stumbling footsteps. More voices drawing near, others, curious at first, and then choked by terror and disgust. Around him, portraits awakening. Disgruntled, mumbling, and then gasps: a muffled shriek.

_Who is it? _Harry thought, fear and dread springing to life. _Oh God. Don't let it be my father, or Dumbledore or Ron or Hermione or Draco or_— He swallowed: no matter what, someone, somewhere, would feel a cloud of sorrow deeper and darker than the heaviest of nights.

"Look!" a girl shrieked. "The Dark Mark! In _blood_!" Harry felt his stomach turn to lead as images from his visions slammed through his mind. He knew, with terrible clarity, what it was that the students saw.

"It's You-Know-Who," a boy whispered, his voice like an autumn leaf.

_They're second-years at most_, thought Harry. He wanted suddenly to cover their eyes so that they wouldn't have to see all the blood that he knew was there, that they wouldn't need to remember the corpse's face, frozen in fear and agony.

"Now what is the matter here?" McGonagall demanded, her harsh voice and footsteps echoing loudly in the hall. "You have class in five minutes, and you shouldn't be—" She stopped, her voice cut off as though by an executioner's axe. Harry heard a strange sound, and then something splashing on the floor, and realized that it was vomit.

"_Sonorus Totalis_," McGonagall muttered after a shaky breath. "ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS!" Her voice boomed through the castle, and Harry was reminded of the time in second year when Hermione had been petrified. But this time, he was all too aware of the quiver in the Transfiguration professor's voice. "RETURN TO YOUR DORMITORIES IMMEDIATELY. ANYONE FOUND LOITERING IN THE HALLS WILL LOSE FIFTY POINTS. THIS INCLUDES PREFECTS. _Quietus_. Now listen, all of you." Her voice became as hard as flint, all shakiness gone. "If you breathe a word of this to any of your classmates, I will make sure you will be heavily punished. What has happened will not be concealed, but we do not want a panic. Do you understand?"

There was a chorus of 'Yes, Professor' in tiny, fragile voices. _First and second-years only_, Harry thought again, and some part of him wrenched with sorrow.

"Good. Now go on, and remember what I said."

The shuffling footsteps echoed down the corridor and faded. Harry heard more footsteps, hurrying closer from far away, and he felt a part of him melt with relief just as another part of him tensed with apprehension. He knew those footsteps.

"What is it, Minerva?" Snape demanded sharply.

McGonagall didn't reply. The footsteps continued until Harry heard them stop right in front of him. He held his breath and slipped behind the portrait frame.

"The students—found him," McGonagall managed.

"I see," said Snape. His voice was flat. Harry could hear no emotion in it at all. "Go and get Albus, Minerva."

_So it's not Dumbledore_, Harry thought, relieved, and a small voice chided him for the foolish notion. Even Voldemort was afraid of Dumbledore.

"Yes, I'll—"

"There's no need. I'm here."

Footsteps—Harry counted three people—hurried down the corridor. One was Flitwick, with his unmistakable trot, and another was Dumbledore's quiet stride, so subtle that he would have missed it if he hadn't been listening for it. But there was a third set, similar to Dumbledore's, but quieter still.

"_Merlin_," Flitwick gasped. "And look! The Dark Mark—"

"Yes, we see it, Filius," Snape snapped. "None of us are blind."

A different voice spoke up, and Harry recognized it as that of the DefenceAgainst the Dark Arts professor, Caius Cinna. "Did any of you see it?"

A chorus of murmurs arose, and Harry realized that Cinna had been addressing the portraits. Harry shifted deeper into the shadow of the portrait frame, and he thought he could feel his father's gaze cutting the air in front of him.

"We were sleeping," a portrait, evidently a woman, sobbed and hiccupped. "Poor, poor man. To be killed—_hic_—so ignobly!"

"Would you have preferred him to die some other way?" Snape sneered.

The portrait made a sputtering sound.

"Enough," Dumbledore said shortly. Silence reigned. "Minerva, cast the charms of preservation. I must make a fire call to the Minister."

"Of course," McGonagall said, reluctance clear in her voice.

"And Filius, if you would go and confer with Sibyland Veronica and the others? They're waiting in the Hall."

"Yes, immediately," Flitwick replied.

_A fire call to the Minister_…_ Once Fudge finds out what happened_— Harry swallowed as he listened to the sound of Dumbledore's fading footsteps. There was no Lucius Malfoy this time, and Fudge had probably returned to idolizing the headmaster, but there was no telling what might happen, not just to Dumbledore, but to Hogwarts. Hogwarts simply couldn't be closed—it was a haven, a symbol, a sanctuary. It was his home.

Suddenly, the weight of what had happened crashed down onto him. He had known this would happen—he had seen the blood, the rushing rivulets of red—and he might have prevented this, if he had stepped into the world of the living. But he had succumbed to his fear, to his cowardice—and now—_this_.

He sank to the ground, burying his face in his knees.

"_Conservare_," McGonagall intoned. "_Intaminato_." She took a deep breath. "What ever will we tell the students?"

"Nothing," Snape replied immediately. "If they don't know, their parents won't know either. Fudge will want to cover this up, now that the killings have started again."

"Ah, but you forget," said an almost unnaturally high voice. _Caius Cinna_, thought Harry. "Some of the students _did_ see. And they will tell. A murder in Hogwarts will be impossible to hush up, Severus."

Harry frowned. There was a way Cinna said that name, _Severus_, that was cruel in some unnamable way.

"Fortunately it wasn't a student who died," Cinna continued. "If it had been a student, Dumbledore would have hell to pay. But it is only the Squib, and he will not be sorely missed."

_Filch_, thought Harry, remembering briefly the slashed throat and fountain of blood, and now, out of the shadows, the vision gave him the face: lined and wrinkled and twisted in pain. _So it's Argus Filch_. He waited for some sort of feeling, but only a vague sense of pity appeared.

"He had a brother," McGonagall snapped, and Harry could hear the anger burning in her voice. "Would you like to write a letter to inform him of this tragedy?"

"I'll leave you the honors, Minerva," Cinna replied smoothly.

"Argus wasn't very popular with the students, but he was loved by his loved ones. Last year, he received a Christmas present from his nephew."

"How touching," Cinna murmured disdainfully. Harry wondered at the voice: it was unnaturally high yet unmistakably old, and as changing and shifting as a blowing strand of spider silk. "What was it? A tissue?"

"It was a stuffed cat," Snape answered coldly.

Cinna paused. "I see," he said, and it seemed to Harry he was savoring a moment of triumph. "Filch wasn't the tissue. It was the Potter boy, wasn't it? Wasn't it, Minerva?"

"Yes, it was Harry Potter," McGonagall said slowly, warily. "His relatives are absolute brutes. They gave him a tissue paper for Christmas—it was his fourthyear, I think."

"How extraordinary," Cinna said. "Was it his fourth year, Severus?"

"I wouldn't know," Snape snarled. "I never paid attention to the brat."

Harry flinched.

"Why, I'm surprised you failed to even notice Lily Potter's son."

"It was very difficult to ignore Harry Potter," McGonagall interrupted frostily. Harry heard her take a step forward, moving between Cinna and Snape. "I'm sure Severus tried his best, Lily Potter or no. Alastor!"

There was a medley of footsteps—Cinna stepping back, McGonagall striding forward, and Moody's wooden leg thumping as he approached.

"Minerva," Moody growled. "A murder in Hogwarts, eh?"

"I'm afraid so," said McGonagall. "Argus Filch, the caretaker. He came after old Mr. Macavity retired to Brussels. Albus, what did Fudge say?"

Harry strained his ears and heard, underneath all the other sounds, Dumbledore coming closer, his strides even and measured and tired. Today was the first time he had been in Dumbledore's presence since entering the Chamber, Harry realized, and there was so much weariness—in each rustle of the headmaster's robes, in each nuance of his voice—that Harry had never thought he would hear.

"Remind me to tell Filius that the Floo powder in his office is running low," said Dumbledore as Moody began fumbling with something made of glass. "What did Fudge say? Well, what anyone would expect him to say. He is coming around later today, though he's sent Alastor. I expect formal investigators to come around soon from the Department of Magical Law."

Moody snorted. "A pack of aurors, more like. Greenhorns, all of them. Fresh recruits. Wouldn't be able to tell a Dark Wizard from a barmaid."

"I'm afraid the press will be here when the Minister comes," Dumbledore continued. "Fudge and the press are rather like Siamese twins. But we must concern ourselves first with the most important thing: the perpetrator of this murder."

_Blue eyes_, thought Harry immediately. "Someone in connection with You-Know-Who, judging from what he left for us on the wall," McGonagall said dryly.

"It could be a red herring, using Voldemort as a scapegoat," Moody muttered, "though personally I find that highly unlikely." _It's no red herring_, thought Harry, remembering the terrible purpose willing the blood to move over the walls. "This entire corridor stinks of the Dark Arts." Moody paused for a moment. "And not just the living people either."

"Alastor," McGonagall snapped, "this is no time for your grudges—"

"I'm just saying, I wish Albus would let me give his 'old friend' a little background check," Moody growled. "I've never heard Albus make any mention of this Caius Cinna, and over the summer, out pops this old 'schoolmate.' Sounds fishy to me."

Old schoolmate? Harry thought, astonished. Was Caius Cinna Dumbledore's classmate, from all those years ago—?

"Alastor!" Dumbledore said sternly, but even as he spoke, Harry heard a loud _crack!_, and Moody hissed as though struck by some terrible blow.

"Alastor!" McGonagall gasped. The sound was of something snapping in two, like bone or wood. Cinna wouldn't have broken one of Moody's bones—would he? Harry wondered. Under Dumbledore's nose, and Moody himself a formidable auror… "Are you—is your—"

"I'm all right," the old auror muttered gruffly. There was the sound of something being picked up from the ground. "My wooden leg's been broken a few times, though not so often by wandless and wordless magic."

"Caius, that was unwarranted," Dumbledore said softly. Harry shivered. There was so much power in those few words: it was like the feeling of the riverbank as the river-ice broke.

A shuffle-step, then silence. Harry realized, a moment later, that those were Caius Cinna's footsteps, sounding a retreat.

"We are at war," said Dumbledore. His voice was still soft, the power still there. "Voldemort has made this first thrust. But our greatest weapon is our greatest shield: it is our camaraderie, which ties us inexorably together. He will try to divide us, to knot us or to cut us loose. But we must hold. We will hold."

Harry couldn't help shivering a bit. There was power in Dumbledore's voice, a power that rumbled like the waves of the ocean. But the words clanged harshly in Harry's mind. Hold? _We_ will hold? He thought of Ron, of Hermione, of how things had changed immutably. He thought of Draco, who knew only a lie. He thought of his father.

"Have courage, my friends," said Dumbledore, not unkindly, and the spell was broken: everyone seemed to breathe at once, and the sound of air to Harry was like a river of wind.

But those last words were like a death knell. _Have courage_, Dumbledore had said _Have courage_. Was this his courage? To be nothing more than a ghost in the walls? He had tried—tried to gain his father's love, tried to leave the portrait world as he knew he should. Tried, and failed.

He clutched the portrait frame. The tingling of magic in front of his face was electric. He couldn't help remembering the panic. The fear. The pain.

"Alastor, I'll let you take charge of the investigators as well as the Ministry inspectors when they arrive," said Dumbledore. "Severus, please prepare some mild truth potions. I'm quite sure the Ministry's investigations will require them. And Minerva, after you notify Argus's relatives, I would like you to summon all the students to the Great Hall. They deserve to know. And right now, I believe the Ministry investigators are at our front door…"

Footsteps moved in all directions, echoing down the corridor with the swish of robes. Harry slipped away, hurrying down the row of portraits. Dumbledore's words had been spoken softly yet firmly, with the confidence of a general and the kindness of an old grandfather, but the reality was almost unpalatable. An innocent had died. The murderer walked the halls freely.

_You could have prevented this_, Harry thought. _He might still be alive if you had stepped out, if you hadn't been such a coward_…

He paused. Sharp footsteps approached, and he recognized them with dread. But even as he wished to dart away, another part of him shouted at him to stay, to overcome his cowardice, to bear what pain might come—

"Severus," whispered a voice in the shadows.

Harry started, and Snape's footsteps stopped.

"Cinna," Snape greeted evenly.

Harry heard it then, the quiet patter of feet—bare feet?—on the ground. Harry felt perturbed. How had Cinna come so quickly and quietly? Had he—Cinna, Dumbledore's old schoolmate—run on bare feet, like some kind of white-haired ape over desolate snows?

"I don't think our friend Minerva knows what you did to Lily," Cinna said quietly. "You've kept your secrets very well."

Harry heard his father take a step back.

"What do you want?" Snape demanded. Harry felt a wave of coldness wash over him: there was fear in that voice, fear and dread of the sort Harry had never heard before.

"You know, I might once have suspected you of having done such a murder," Cinna said. His voice was smooth, gliding like a cobra. "I might have suspected, long ago. But now I know you don't have the guts to do it. Or, should I say, the balls?"

"What do you want, Caius Cinna?" Snape shouted, stepping back. Harry heard a muffled thud—the sound of a back pressed against a wall.

"You have nothing I _want_," Cinna hissed, "but I think there are things you want to tell me. More secrets. Secrets about Harry _Potter_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Snape growled through gritted teeth. Harry swallowed hard and moved closer, his heart pounding so loudly it was hard to hear some of the words. "Go away. Leave me alone. Or I'll tell Dumbledore."

"You won't tell Dumbledore," Cinna whispered. "He will ask you, Severus, do you have anything to tell me? What did he do? Did he hurt you? You will look down and say, in your irritable tone, no. I'm fine, Albus. And he won't ask you anymore. Am I right?"

"Leave me alone," Snape muttered, and his voice was suddenly dull and flat, as lifeless as a soulless shell. "Leave me alone. I'm not a Death Eater anymore."

"Indeed he is not," said another voice, an angry voice: Dumbledore's voice. Harry started and swallowed, even though he knew that the anger was not directed at him. "Caius, did you have something you wanted to tell Severus?"

"No, Albus," Cinna said with surprising meekness.

"Then you can leave and not bother him again," said Dumbledore curtly. "You remember what I told you."

Harry heard again the curious shuffling sounds and recognized them as Cinna's footsteps, moving away until they disappeared.

"Severus," Dumbledore said gently, "do you have anything to tell me?"

"No," Snape said, sounding a bit more like his cold and disdainful self.

"Come now," said Dumbledore. "What about a spot of tea? To your quarters, then?"

"Don't you have aurors to greet?" Snape demanded in his most disdainful tone.

"Alastor can serve them tea," Dumbledore said. "Tell me, what did Cinna do?"

"Nothing!" Snape snarled, shouted, pleaded, and moved swiftly away. After a moment of indecision, Harry hurried after them. He hoped they would continue talking about Cinna, hoped that some of his curiosity would be assuaged. Dumbledore was powerful, everyone knew that, but Cinna had been so—submissive when it came to the aging headmaster. There was a secret there, and with his father, with Snape. What hold did Cinna have over him?

They stopped, and Harry stilled, listening carefully to the sounds before him. He knew where he was: before the grandfather's clock that guarded the entrance to Snape's quarters. From outside the portrait world, he heard a scraping sound, and footsteps.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, just as the scraping sound came again. "Did he hurt you?"

There was the slight thud, and then silence.

Harry took a deep breath and tottered towards the grandfather clock, reaching out until he felt the wooden sides. He could hear the rhythmic tick-tock of the pendulum, feel the movement through the air as it rose and fell. He hesitated. There was a sign on the wood behind the pendulum, he knew: the ash and the snake. But he felt sudden qualms in eavesdropping, in peering behind the cold mask of his father, of the man who had—

He stopped.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock_. He lifted his hand and waited until the pendulum passed his face, and thrust out his palm, pressing onto the wood and feeling the faint lines of the emblem. There was the elusive brush of air, more pronounced than last time, though perhaps it was because he was expecting it with baited breath, and then he was—

"—that brat is gone!"

"Your fault?" Dumbledore said gently. "It was not your fault at all, Severus."

"Don't play games with me, Albus," Snape hissed, his voice as raw and angry as a festering wound. "You know as well as I that I feel no responsibility at all—" He stopped abruptly. Harry was frozen in place, his heart pounding painfully loud in his ears.

"We've had this conversation many times before," Snape said coldly. "I have to brew a few potions for Poppy. You have had your tea. So please excuse me."

"You can try to lie to yourself, but I know you too well," Dumbledore continued, unperturbed. "It is not your fault Harry is gone. He was in a very vulnerable state at the time, and he looked at you for love and reassurance at a time—"

"I _knew_ he was vulnerable!" Snape shouted. "And if it was anyone's fault, it was _his_!"

Harry felt his stomach turn to lead in one horrible instant.

"Severus—"

Snape cut Dumbledore off with a fierce snarl. "Your beloved brat was too self-centered to understand his importance as a figurehead to the milling crowds of idiots! And so when I told him what he didn't want to hear, he fled!" His voice twisted with bitter contempt. "Now he's probably wallowing in his selfish angst, too afraid or too mired in self-pity to come out, just like his—"

Snape stopped, breathing heavily.

_Just like his father, James Potter_, Harry thought calmly. His heart was slamming a hole in his chest, but he felt strangely calm, like the surface of a vast, frozen lake. _What he said isn't anything you shouldn't have found unexpected_, Harry thought coldly. He stepped back and with even footsteps walked to the clock. He touched the sign, felt the soft brush of air_He's always hated you_, he thought. _And now_… He moved, at first as slowly as a mourner, and then as a wind over the moor— _Now he hates you for all the right reasons._

His lungs ached and his breaths came in jerky gasps as he ran. He slowed himself abruptly until he was no longer running, until he was only walking—walking stiffly, like some creature that had just broken out of an encasement of ice.

He had never quite given up hope. There had been a part of him, a part he had managed to persuade himself that he'd extinguished, that burned cheerfully with hope and dreams, with fantasies that he'd walk out one day—as the Heir of Slytherin, with a Snape-nose and Snape-face, and say, Look, I am not the brat you thought I was,I am Harry, your son. And in his fantasy, his father would look at him and say that there hadn't been any hatred, that it had all been an act, a hurtful masquerade, that he was so proud of his son, and the caustic voice would turn gentle and glow with pride and love, pride and love for the returned son—

He stopped. _He hates you,_ he thought again,_ for all the right reasons_.

He reached out his hands with all the solemnity of an ancient ritual. The bark received his touch. He bowed his head, resting his cheek against the trunk and shuddering as if the touch of harsh wood brushed across his body, his soul. His hands clenched, he gritted his teeth like a martyr in his rack, and pulled, feeling with trembling breath the ripping of skin and letting of blood; he paused momentarily, letting the waves of pain wash and recede, before he steeled himself and—

"_Arglwydd!"_

Harry pulled his hands back, flinching at the brief burst of pain as they left the trunk.

"_What have you done?"_ the snake hissed. Harry felt it winding up around his legs as quickly as a rippling breeze, and he held his hands away from his body, out of the snake's reach. "_Let me heal you. Now!"_

Harry obeyed mutely, dropping his hands to his sides and letting the snake's tongue run over the wounds.

"_Tell me, arglwydd_," the snake hissed angrily, still securely winded around Harry's legs. "_Tell me why you are doing this. Tell me!"_

"_I—I don't know_," Harry muttered. The pain in his hands had almost faded, but he resisted the urge to run his fingers over his palms, to see if they had all healed.

"_I should have expected this_," the snake continued, "_and I did think this might happen, but I thought I would catch it. I thought you would have more sense! Of all trees, why did you choose this one? This one would drink your tears and blood until you had none left!"_

Harry stayed silent.

"_Well? Answer me, oh Heir of Slytherin!"_

"_Don't call me that_," Harry hissed angrily. He didn't know why he was suddenly so angry, didn't know that he had the strength to be angry: only that he was, in a vague, irritable way. "_I told you already. I don't know_."

"_Go ahead and tell yourself that. Tell all the lies you want!" _the snake spat._ "Did you think you could escape your fate, that a little bit of pain here would balance things out? You are a fool! A selfish brat!"_ It made an angry scraping sound and tightened its coils around Harry's legs._ "You are the Child of the Prophecy—you are the Heir of Slytherin—you are Harry Potter—you are your father's son—you—_"

"_SHUT UP!"_ Harry hissed with a fury he didn't know he possessed. He lashed out a foot and found himself inextricably tangled; he tottered and fell, and on the ground he grappled and clawed the snake's scaled body, kicking frantically and slamming his feet on the ground between grunts of rage and madness—

He finally found a grip and flung his arm out with all his strength. "_LEAVE ME ALONE!"_ he screamed as the snake whipped through the air. "_Go away! Leave me alone! Do you think I don't know what I am, what I have to be? DO YOU THINK IT'S EASY, THAT IT DOESN'T HURT?"_

He was panting, and his throat was hoarse, his tongue sore. Sweat soaked his brow, and he felt one of the tree's roots digging into his thigh. His lungs ached. He took several more deep, hard breaths, before he got onto his knees. There was another root digging into his shin. His breath gradually slowed, and he swallowed.

"_Snake_?" he called. The hiss came out rough, like tree bark. "_Snake_?"

Harry got onto his feet, and felt a moment of dizziness—a sudden fear seized him that somehow he had hurt it or killed it—and he staggered forward, feeling through the grass.

"_Snake, are you there?_" he hissed, still breathing hard. "_I'm sorry, snake. I am, I really am. Snake?"_

He made a circle around the tree, and leaned against it, recovering his breath. But he couldn't rest. He couldn't.

"_Snake_?" he called as he flitted from painting to painting. He burst into his room—the one with the portrait of the living world. Sunlight flowed in from the window like a golden cascade, and the stones were warm under his feet. "_Snake?"_

"Gwalchgwyn!"

Harry froze. He swallowed and moved to the separation between the worlds. "Draco?" he murmured hoarsely.

"Yeah, it's me," said Draco. "You've heard, haven't you, about what happened to Filch?"

Harry nodded mutely.

Draco paused for a moment. "I'm sorry, then," he said, a hint contritely. "Even though I said I'd manage. I set off a bunch of dungbombs in that corridor so nobody would go there, but I forgot that Filch would have to clean it up."

"It's not your fault," Harry said dully. "You did your best. And it shouldn't have been your burden."

Another pause. "Who do you think did it?"

"How much did Dumbledore tell you?" Harry asked.

"Only that there was a tragedy and Filch had been murdered by someone in the castle," Draco said.

"Then he didn't say there was a Dark Mark on the wall?"

"Dark Mark?"

"In blood. On the wall. Filch's blood."

They were silent, the silence somber and grave.

"What would you do," Harry asked suddenly, "if Harry Potter returned?" He stared straight ahead with his sightless eyes and waited, wondering if Draco was looking at him, or looking at his own hands, or looking out the window at the sun-drenched grounds. The silence stretched so long that Harry wondered if he should repeat his question.

"I hate Harry Potter," Draco said with quiet vehemence. "He may not be a spoiled brat or an arrogant prick, but he put my father in Azkaban. And I hate him for it."

"You would hate him," Harry repeated slowly.

"Why do you ask?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "Because I want to know."

Draco shifted. His voice was carefully neutral. "Is he going to come back soon from wherever Dumbledore's hiding him?"

"He'll have to," Harry replied dully, voice as lifeless as a tomb. "He must. I'm sorry, Draco. But could you let me alone for now? Please?"

"If you wish," Draco said, a touch sulky, a touch annoyed. "I'll see you later—tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Tomorrow, perhaps," Harry echoed. Draco did not move for a moment, and then he left, his footsteps dying in the distance.

Harry stepped back, one, two, three, four, and sat on the bed, feeling the warmed sheets under his fingers. He bent his head and felt his hair, to his shoulders now, swing past his face like a curtain. Light filtered through, touching his eyes.

He wandered out. He avoided the scraping tree and moved behind the chattering portraits like a falling leaf through the forest. It was not a matter of if. It was a mater of when.

"It is time, isn't it, _bachgen_?"

Harry turned to face the voice. There was the sound of pine trees, of needles rustling like the sea and branches murmuring in the wind. He could smell the pines, the aroma and the song borne on a gentle breeze.

"Lady," Harry said. He lowered his head.

"You have come a long way," she said. "I hope you have used wisely your gift of time."

Harry stayed silent. What was there to say? Words, tears, emotions, fears—it seemed to him that none of them mattered, that all of them withered and died when it came to the task he had to face.

"Come here, _bachgen_," the Lady said imperiously.

Harry obeyed, stepping forward between the pines until he knew he was at arm's length away from the Lady. He felt hands on his face: cool hands, cupping his cheeks and moving gently over his sharp cheekbones and down the length of his nose. He held himself still.

"Salazar gave you his face," the Lady murmured. "There's little of me here, except your eyes. And now they're blind."

Harry lifted a hand and absently touched an eyelid. "Enid?" he said in uncertain disbelief, pulling the name from a myriad of memories.

"_Fy bachgen_,**"** the Lady murmured, and pulled him close. Harry let her fold him into her breast, thinking that this was his ancestress: this woman—a Muggle—who had saved Salazar Slytherin's life on the Welsh hills. He remembered a time when he would have frozen in fear, his legs clamping together and arms crossing his thin chest, his mind a paralyzed blank; and still he could feel the echoes of that time, but now—now he could feel the encirclement of arms and let a whisper escape his lips:

"I'm afraid."

He was bent awkwardly, his head lowered and knees slightly bent so that his face was in her shoulder. But she was gently patting his back, and she was rocking back and forth, and Harry felt his throat twist painfully.

"My poor boy," Enid murmured. "Things would be so much easier if he dared to love you, wouldn't it?"

Harry nodded in her shoulder.

"And sometimes you wonder: why do I long for a father's love? Why am I so haunted by the shadow of his hate? Others at my age cannot wait to be free."

"It's because I'm weak," Harry said hesitantly. Enid stilled. "It's because I'm afraid."

"If you weren't afraid, you'd never have courage," Enid chided. She resumed rocking. "If you weren't weak, you'd never be strong. It's like a goat I once had. I named him _Ymdrechydd_ because he was always struggling. The other kids were healthy from the start, and proud and strutting as they all became. But _Ymdrechydd_ wasn't like that at all. He was sickly and a bit of a loner. In the end, though, I loved him best, and he lived longer than any other."

Harry listened silently, and wondered. He wondered what Dumbledore would have him do—return to a semblance of normality, taking classes and doing homework like the other students, or hiding him away to be trained and tempered like a half-formed sword? Isolation among others, or isolation alone. Potions would be interesting, if Dumbledore decided to return him to student life. He could already hear Snape's cutting words, removing pieces of his heart slice by slice, while Ron sniggered behind him. Then there would be a thousand other difficulties simply because he was Harry Potter, and more because he was blind, and even more because of his nose and hair and face and blood: they were more than his. They were his father's—Snape's.

Only he'd never be able to breach that barrier of hate and bitterness and hear it said in return. This claim would be his alone, a candle that refused to go out.

He thought of all of this and wondered what cosmic joke had decided to make _him_ the Childe of the Prophey—and not Neville, who now seemed the perfect candidate—but it didn't matter, did it? He was still who he was. And this was his leave-taking.

Enid let go and he pulled away, though she kept a hand on the side of his neck.

"You will find strength, _fy bachgen_," Enid said. "We couldn't find it for you, Salazar or I. He could only give you his silly magic tricks, and I could only give you time. You're my _Ymdrechydd_."

Harry smiled weakly, feeling a rush of affection so intense it brought an aching to the back of his eyes. He could hear the pride in Enid's voice, the pride and the love. It was enough to make his heart sing.

"Go well, my boy," Enid said softly, stepping back. Her hand left his neck. "Do not be afraid to love. You will need it, and the memory of it as well." Her voice had become sad. "Go well, _fy bachgen_.**"**

"Farewell," Harry called, but he knew she was already gone.

The pines murmured again, as though washing away what lingered of her presence. Harry took a deep breath and turned around. He would go Dumbledore's office. There were plenty of portraits there, and he'd step out of any one of them without trouble. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to pop out in the middle of the halls.

The corridors were mostly empty as made his way up through the castle. A few students were hurrying in clusters, whispering quietly, no doubt about the recent death. _I owe this to Mrs. Norris, at least_, Harry thought.

He thought about Mrs. Norris, wandering the halls as he had, solitary in her grief. What did mourning cats do anyway? He wondered if she stalked Filch's office, keeping faithful guard until a new caretaker moved in. He wondered, then, where she would go, who would take her in. _Perhaps that nephew, who gave Filch a stuffed cat_, thought Harry.

He was near the headmaster's office before he let himself think about his father and about Draco.

He took a deep breath. He realized that he was in the headmaster's office itself. He heard the faint ticking of the silver contraptions on Dumbledore's table and shelves; there was the flickering of fire in the warm fireplace. Harry wondered if Fawkes was there, but there was no sound from the phoenix.

_I wish the snake were here_, thought Harry.

"_Arglwydd_," came a hiss.

Harry turned in surprise and felt the snake hesitantly wrap itself around his legs.

"_Snake_," Harry said with relief. "_You're here. I was afraid I'd hurt you somehow. I'm sorry for back then. I shouldn't have done that_."

"_It was as much my fault as yours_," the snake dismissed. "_None of my memories instructed me on guiding trauma victims._"

Harry frowned. "_Trauma victim? Me_?"

"_Aren't you?_"

Harry shrugged his shoulders reluctantly. "_I suppose I am._" There was a silence. "_I'm going out now_."

"_So you are_," said the snake in an agreeable voice.

There was another pause, and Harry asked, "_Aren't you going to tell me how_?"

"_I have no memory of stepping out of a portrait_," the snake answered, sounding somewhat miffed. "_I had never been in the world of paintings in the first place. I_

blue eyes narrowed, watching the assembled reporters and cameramen, flanking the silly fool they called Minister: the time has come, what has been sown shall now be reaped, enjoy the show, Dumbledore

"_Arglwydd_?"

Harry felt the world spinning. The colors seemed to echo in the blinding whiteness of his vision, the shades leering like dark imaginings.

"_Something's happening_," Harry croaked. "_I_

let them prepare their cameras, their notepads, the students are there too, ah, good, there is nothing like a panicked crowd of brats

"_What is it?_"

"_I must leave_," Harry hissed urgently. "_Now_." He hurried forward and thrust his hands at the barrier between the worlds. Magic buzzed around his fingers and tingled his forearms, but as he took another step forward, the barrier tightened with a disgruntled moan and pushed him back.

He pulled back in frustration. He could feel panic rising like a blood-dimmed tide. "_Why can't I get out? I need_

_now! can you feel it traitor? can you feel my power? ah, you flinch, I see that you can feel it a little stronger, yes, now they notice you, the minister has stopped his blabbering, Dumbledore is looking at you with concern, but it is too late, you will go mad with pain_

Harry lunged forward, throwing every fiber of his being into breaking the barrier, clawing with his hands and biting with his teeth as his mind screamed _father! FATHER_he was sobbing with exertion, but the barrier still held—

_die, you will die, traitor, you will_

The air exploded, and silence fell like a terrible weight.

He got up onto his hands and knees, dimly aware that the snake was coiled around his arm. The plush carpet of the headmaster's office felt strange against his hands and knees, feeling almost too real. The air tasted vibrantly alive; his lungs ached with a strange pain; the wetness of his forehead seemed breathtakingly different.

He clambered to his feet and dashed forward and slammed his knee into something big.

"_Look through my eyes_," the snake hissed, and Harry thrust his mind into the snake. Colors blossomed through his sight: the staggering red of the carpet; the enthralling movement of the silver contraptions swinging to-and-fro, to-and-fro; a wash of familiarity and unfamiliarity as he stared at the great oak

_now they see it! my Mark, as black as death, for all to see! my power_

Harry darted down the stairs, running as swiftly as a hawk's shadow. Air whistled through his lungs—an almost alien sensation—but it filled him with life, with terrible urgency. His body seemed to lighten, to be made of the stuff of unseen imaginings, and then he was in the entrance of the Great Hall.

The four great tables were filled with students, and at the other end there was a crowd, somewhat shrouded by purple smoke. The tables seemed to meet at the far end of the hall, and there—there, writhing in the floor in the middle of a ring of onlookers, with Dumbledore clutching his shoulders—was Snape.

His father.

Harry felt the air rushing past his face as he raced down the hall, felt the rising murmur from the crowd like the feel of cold air on a wintry day, of the blur of shocked faces and bursts of purple smoke—

He was kneeling at Snape's side and staring through the snake's eyes at the ugly thing on his father's forearm. The mark throbbed and pulsed like a living thing, and with each movement, his father twisted like an instrument, played by a cruel hand.

"Father," he croaked, so quietly he himself did not hear it. For a moment he was lost, stricken with fear and helplessness, watching his father writhe in maddening pain. There was nothing he could do—no way that he could fight—no way he could win—

_No!_ he cried in anger. He had fought Voldemort before, fought and won, even if it had been by luck alone, and this time he was no longer simply Harry Potter. He was more—he was Slytherin's Heir—he was his father's son, and nothing, nothing would change it: not the memory of hate, nor the pain, nor the fear. He turned his face to the seething crowd, and suddenly, he felt it.

_what is this? is it some trick of Dumbledore's? he is powerful, I can feel it, he is dangerous, what is he doing_

—the blue eyes, he could _feel_ them

_he has his hand on the traitor's arm, on my mark, ah!_

"Voldemort!" Harry shouted. He felt an answering challenge pulse in the Mark under his hand. He heard the crowd shiver and gasp, falling to a trembling hush. "I challenge your claim on this man: this man who is no longer your servant."

There was a moment's silence, and then a voice answered: deep, hissing, as dry as sun-bleached bones and as bitterly hateful as the howling winter storm. _Name your claim, nameless one_.

"I am the Heir of Slytherin," Harry shouted back. His voice was hoarse now, and the ground was hard and painful under his knees. But none of it touched his mind: his entire being was caught up in the rush of power through the air and under his hand. "I claim him." His voice was hoarse now, hoarse but unyielding and deafening in the utter quiet of** t**he Hall. "I claim him as Slytherin's heir."

The air waited.

He remembered his father's words. He remembered the pain, the snarling voice saying things that cut him like barbed hooks, saying them only—only minutes ago. He remembered that his claim would be his alone, that his father would never look upon it as anything besides a cumbersome debt to pay to the Potter brat. He remembered, and for a moment, he was paralyzed with the memories. But the moment passed with a shuddering breath.

"And I claim him as my father." The words, spoken with more strength than he knew he possessed, seemed to echo in his ears like the sounds in Slytherin's Chamber, like chains breaking and the wings of a bird tasting freedom. He added, perhaps for no reason but to hear it said: "I claim him—as his son."


	15. Return

_A/N: Many thanks to Procyon for the beta! She always catches those little things that make or break a story_...

* * *

**Chapter 15: Return **

A silence fell. Harry stayed in his crouched position, one hand on the Mark on his father's arm, the other gripping his father's wrist, feeling the muscle and tendons tensing with pain underneath. The ground was painful under his knee. He saw through the snake's eyes the faces of so many people, all upon him, all bewildered and fearful and confused.

_You are not the Heir of Slytherin!_ Voldemort hissed, his voice echoing through the entire Great Hall like an avalanche of sand. Harry scanned the hall, wondering who Voldemort was hiding in, or disguised as, for it had to have been someone, anyone. _I claim that title. That title is mine._

"Your claims are false," Harry replied. "I—challenge them. I will break them."

Magic moved in the air, and Harry had the vague feeling that something momentous was going to happen. The others seemed to know it too, for they cowered and moved back, leaving a larger circle around Harry and his father. Harry scanned the faces of the crowd, wondering where Voldemort was, if Voldemort was among them. He found Ron easily. The redhead stood a head above the rest of the crowd, and Harry saw the fear and suspicion written clearly on the freckled face. Hermione stood next to him, and Harry read the same fear, but there was also puzzlement and concentration. And far away on the other side of the crowd stood Draco—Draco, whose face was white as fear, who was looking not at him, but at someone standing next to the Minister of Magic.

_I accept your challenge_, Voldemort hissed, and the voice no longer surrounded him like a blast of winter. It came from one side of the ring of speculators, spreading out like ripples in a stagnant pool. The crowd edged away, and one figure stood alone.

Harry looked. The figure's face was difficult to make out—it was as though the shadow of a hood fell over it, but when he looked more carefully, there was no hood, and there was no shadow.

_That man, your father, swore allegiance to me_, Voldemort began, his voice coming from the figure. _He swore it and bound himself to me with the Dark Mark_. Harry felt Voldemort's magic pulsing, burning his palm as he clamped his hand over his father's left forearm. _He is bound to me, and only I may release him! And that I do not!_

For a moment Harry knelt there speechless. But he felt emotion rising up through him, and the emotions coalesced into words. "There may have a time when he followed you," Harry said. "But that time is done." He strengthened his grip. "His will is no longer with you, as it had not been with you for many years. I claim him. You have no hold over him anymore."

Voldemort's voice rose, filling the air like the shrieking of a sandstorm. _Nevertheless, the chains remain. The spells and enchantments I forged in Slytherin's name will not break until I say so! He is mine!_ Voldemort strode closer, seeming to grow in height, to tower above Harry and his father. The Great Hall became dimmer, and Snape's arm became colder under Harry's hand, and Harry felt his palm sizzle with pain—a pain that reminded him sharply of the scraping tree.

"It is a claim that no longer holds!" Harry shouted at the gathering dark. The Dark Lord's face was still hidden, though at any moment, it seemed, the hood would fall away, and the ghastly white flesh and burning red eyes would sear through his mind. "He broke away many years ago, and he is my father! Does that not count for anything?" There was no answer besides the screaming of a thousand gales rearing up like dead things. "And I love him!" Harry yelled hoarsely because he doubted anyone could hear him in the wind, because it was the truth and he could think of nothing else to say.

By some instinct Harry looked down. The snake followed the motion of his head, and through the snake's eyes, in what seemed to be a small puddle of light in a dome of darkness, he saw that his father's eyes were opened.

Harry's heart seized for a moment. Snape's lips moved feebly, and his face was strained; and Harry automatically bent his head closer to hear his father over the sound of the shrieking winds: "…_Ha_… _rry_?"

Harry cried out in pain: his palm burned as though he were gripping a white-hot brand. He released his father's left forearm, and—

Everything was silent. The wind had stopped; the darkness was gone. His father's eyes were closed again. Harry looked up and saw again the faces of the crowd, looking almost as though nothing had happened. Only Hermione's eyes were significantly wider, and the Minister seemed quite a bit paler, and Draco was looking at him now, his face white and unreadable. Harry felt something in his hand. He looked down: there were traces of black flakes there, and as he shifted his palm the flakes fell away, and Harry realized that his father's forearm was bare.

There was a gurgling sound nearby. Harry looked up, and saw, standing only a few steps away, the bulky figure of Gregory Goyle, clutching his chest. Goyle lifted his massive head, and it was clear: the pale face, the red eyes, the slit-like nose—

"Voldemort!" Harry blurted.

Nobody did anything for a moment, and even Goyle, with Voldemort within him, froze.

But the moment passed, and all the officials next to the Minister moved in unison to form a phalanx around Voldemort. Fudge gave a squeak and fell to the floor in a dead faint. Like a lethifold, the entire unit, with Voldemort as Goyle at the center, began gliding out the Great Hall—

"TOM RIDDLE, YOU MAY NOT LEAVE!"

Dumbledore's command echoed and reechoed like a deep bell, reverberating and tumbling through the air and the ground. For a split second, everything _did_ halt—Voldemort and his Death Eaters stopped as though jerked by a leash, and the crowd paused for a breathless moment.

Then spells of all colors began flying into the crowd. Screams rose like in a fearful chorus. The great doors at the end of the Hall began inching close.

Harry suddenly felt a wand pointing at his neck.

"You come with us, boy," anoily voice whispered, and for a moment all Harry could think of was Vernon and the insidious voice in his ear and the loathsome touch on his skin—but Harry jerked aside with the swiftness of a shadow as some memory within him identified that voice as Lucius Malfoy.

"Don't touch me!" Harry shouted. He darted aside again, as lightly as an autumn leaf, and he felt a tingling at the ends of his fingers. He felt the snake bend its head slightly, and Harry saw the fine, thread-like needles fluttering from his fingertips.

Lucius Malfoy bent down and smirked. Harry's gaze traced down Malfoy's right arm, past the wand, and to where it was pointed at his father's throat. Harry felt his heart skip a beat.

"Will you come?" Malfoy said softly.

_No!_ Harry screamed in his mind, in desperation, in fury. He felt the needles at his fingertips quiver and freeze into something more solid, more deadly—

He lifted his hand.

"FATHER, NO!"

Harry turned, as did Lucius Malfoy. Struggling against the stampede of fleeing students and bobbing up and down like a cork at sea was Draco Malfoy. His hair was disheveled and his robes were a mess; part of his face seemed to have suffered a blow.

"BE CAREFUL, FATHER!" he shouted, his gray eyes wide with fear.

Harry didn't wait. He let the needles dissolve in air and swooped down like a hawk, grabbing his father and disappearing like a flash of light. Behind him, he felt the heat of a spell.

"FATHER, HE—"

Draco's voice ended suddenly. Harry felt disoriented for a moment as he moved forward while the snake's head was looking behind him, looking at Draco, whose body stilled in mid-stride, absorbing the red-colored spell that had hit him. Then he slumped to the ground.

Harry turned at Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy's head snapped up, his half-wild gaze darkening when he saw the expression on Harry's face.

"You have nowhere to run, boy!" Malfoy shouted shrilly, jabbing his wand in Harry's direction.

Harry dodged Malfoy's next spell as it hurtled towards him. A chair exploded to his right, filling the air with splintered wood, and a crater blasted into the ground just steps behind. He was dimly alarmed at how powerful Malfoy was, dimly aware of how close the spells had brushed him by, of the throbbing at the edge of his fingertips, waiting to cut through the air—

But some part of him was adamantly reluctant about letting the needles fly. They stole souls; there was no taking them back after they left his hand. And Lucius Malfoy was still a human.

There was a rumbling sound and a crescendo of screams. Harry looked up to see an enormous cloud of red fog mushrooming from the entrance of the Great Hall and hurtling down its length. Harry had only a moment to dash backwards, leaping over the broken halves of a table, before the fog overtook him.

The world disappeared in reddish darkness, and his eyes began to sting fiercely.

"_Close your eyes!"_ the snake hissed. "_It is a venom, this dust. Shut them!"_

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His eyes seemed to be poked full of needles, and he had no tears to wash away the pain, and each breath seemed to scratch his throat. He needed to bury his face in something, to find some way to filter away the stinging, to rub or scratch at the terrible agony of his eyes—

He found himself with his face against his father's chest. As he breathed, he could smell the scent of dungeons and dried herbs and slowly brewing potions on his father's body, and slowly, it helped lessen the pain.

The angry reddish-black haze slowly faded into white, and for a moment Harry thought that the dust had cleared and pale light had flooded the Hall. But he realized that it was only his mind leaving the snake and the return of the white mist of his blindness.

"_What's happened, snake_?" Harry asked shakily. His body ached and his father's body lay heavily across his lap. "_Where is Malfoy_?"

"_How would I know_?" the snake retorted from around his neck. "_It's not as though I can see through this_—"

The air felt different, suddenly. "_Ah_._ The dust is clearing_," the snake hissed. "_You can look through me now, if you wish."_

The whiteness dissipated like shattered glass before Harry's eyes, and faint wisps of red lingered at the edges of everything, like the haze of a frosty morning. At the far end of the hall, sunlight streamed in through the remains of the giant double-doors. Wreckage lay all about: broken chairs, tables, huddled piles that were students, staff. Everything was strangely quiet.

Harry felt a wand touching his back. _Malfoy_? Harry thought.

But the voice was different. "So you are Severus's son," it said. Harry tensed, knowing that voice, but it froze him with its next words: "Don't. Move."

Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest. He was on the floor, in a sitting position, with his father unconscious in his lap, and there was a wand trained at his neck.

"I wasn't aware that Severus had a son," the voice continued. It was conversational, unhurried, so strangely high-pitched that it sounded almost like a whine.

Harry swallowed. "Now you know, then." His field of vision began to revolve, and Harry could feel the snake, with hypnotic grace, slowly turn its head.

"Quite a snake you have there, boy," Caius Cinna said, their gazes meeting. He reached down a pale, hairless arm; Harry felt the snake hiss menacingly against his neck—

"Caius!"

_Dumbledore!_ Harry thought. Cinna looked up suddenly, as did the snake, and Harry was dizzy for a moment before the world righted itself. The old headmaster strode down upon them, weariness and irritation in every movement, but after taking a few more steps, Dumbledore stopped short. His face transformed. Harry didn't think he had never seen such joy and relief on the headmaster's face.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said, voice brimming with relief but held in check by uncertainty.

Harry managed to arrange his face into a semblance of a smile. "Professor," he croaked.

"Harry!" Dumbledore repeated, this time the relief flooding out unrestrained. "And—thank Merlin—Severus…"

As though responding to his name, Snape stirred and moaned softly in Harry's lap. Dumbledore knelt down and laid his hands on Snape's head.

"He seems quite fine," Dumbledore said, again with relief. "But he should be taken to Madam Pomfrey, just to be sure."

"I can take him," Cinna said quietly from behind Harry.

Harry shook his head once, quickly, but Dumbledore noticed with a sharp glance. "Perhaps I can take Severus to my office," Dumbledore said. He took out his wand and levitated Snape. "Harry… if you will follow me?"

Harry swallowed and nodded in acquiescence, noting how almost… deferential Dumbledore seemed. The whole situation was surreal. He could still feel the adrenaline in his veins from Malfoy's attacks and Cinna's wand. Noises still sounded more strangely vibrant than those in the portrait realm, and the air was more fresh and harsh; people—real people—surrounded him, and he could feel their closeness with the acuteness of a needle.

And his father—Snape—was floating at arm's length in front of him.

There was a storm of emotions boiling under his tightly-held exterior, feelings—fear, nervousness, apprehension—and so much more, all churning under the thrumming of his heart. Harry wished he didn't feel quite so like a frightened mouse.

Just then, hurried footsteps pounded in from the entrance of the Great Hall.

"Albus!" It was Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was at the head of a group of black-robed witches and wizards who were running in hurriedly through the doorway and breathing heavily. "Albus, we were all summoned—what happened?" He looked around, quickly taking in the destruction and bodies. His eyes paused on Harry, and Harry looked at the auror's face for any sign of recognition, but there was none.

"Through means yet unknown, Voldemort was able to infiltrate Hogwarts," Dumbledore said gravely. "His Death Eaters entered, disguised as Minister Fudge's advisors and bodyguards." There was a moan from a pile some distance away. "I see that the Minister is beginning to come around."

Kingsley wore a rather resigned look on his face as Fudge began to stir. "Well, are there still any Death Eaters on the grounds?"

"I very much doubt it," Dumbledore said, "though it would be best to make sure."

"Right," Kingsley said briskly. "Tonks, Griffith, lead your squadrons to search the grounds—be thorough, mind you both! And Harvey, you and your crew clean this mess up…"

The black-robed wizards and witches broke up efficiently, some moving into the castle's interior while others went out onto the grounds; others combed through the broken tables, dishes, bodies, still crackling with magic.

Harry looked at the bodies lying here and there, utterly still, and felt his stomach sink. Were they… dead? The thought struck him like a bucketful of ice water. He hadn't even considered the possibility of all these people dying while dodging Malfoy's spells, his father sagging heavily in his arms…

_Draco's among them_, Harry thought, his mind searching over his field of vision for where the Malfoy heir might be lying. His stomach clenched at the possibility of Draco—dead—at his own father's wand…

There was a clicking sound nearby. Harry looked: it was a cameraman, looking rather battered and bruised, but with his camera in hand, hurriedly taking photos of the wreckage.

"Hey, give it here," an auror said roughly. "You're disrupting the proceedings."

The cameraman hugged his camera protectively against his chest. "The public has the right to know," he said tightly, backing away a few steps.

The auror advanced menacingly, but other journalists, reporters, students had risen like ghosts from the grave. A witch stood nearby furiously writing in a little note-pad. She glanced up, saw Harry and Dumbledore, and scribbled something down.

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. He tensed—his field of vision blurred as the snake snapped around and hissed.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore said, looking a bit taken aback by the snake. "Perhaps you will come with me and Professor Snape to my office?"

Harry realized that his back was to Dumbledore, even though he could see the old headmaster's gentle blue eyes and bushy white brows, and the slight form of Caius Cinna behind him. Harry turned and nodded. "Yes, Professor."

"ALBUS!"

The snake turned again, so fast that the world bled white for a moment as he teetered in disorientation. _I'll need to tell it not to do that_, Harry thought. When the world sharpened, he saw Fudge bearing down upon them, his bowler hat dented and face much redder than usual. Behind him trailed a blond-haired man that… looked strangely familiar. Harry frowned, puzzled, wondering where he'd seen that face.

"Yes, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked courteously, though Harry could clearly hear the impatience. A few reporters began making their way towards the Minister and the headmaster, and there was the flash of purple smoke and an uneven click of a camera shutter. _I wish they'd stay away_, Harry thought testily, getting the distinct impression that he was being surrounded by vultures.

"I demand an explanation for this—this—attack!" Fudge gesticulated violently as his face became increasingly purple. _He looks a bit like Vernon_, Harry thought, and his stomach turned to lead. He closed his eyes but the image before him did not fade. _It's not Vernon_, he reminded himself. _You're safe_. _You're safe_.

"The answer is very simple," Dumbledore said softly, ignoring the reporters and cameramen that drew closer around them. "Through a ritual that I suspect is closely associated with possession, Voldemort"—everyone flinched, and a camera went off rather violently—"managed to infiltrate Hogwarts by disguising himself as one of the students. He attacked a staff member through the Dark Mark. But his attack was unsuccessful, and he was forced to retreat."

Fudge drew in a deep breath. His eyes darted around for a moment, taking in the reporters and cameramen, resting on Harry briefly. "Certainly the security of Hogwarts will need to be carefully checked," Fudge said loudly. The reporters scribbled in unison. "Such an attempt on my life must never happen again, though"—he puffed out his chest—"I suffer these dangers every day."

"The best way to do that, Cornelius, may be to check your aides," Dumbledore said softly. The journalists glanced up with avid eyes.

Fudge blanched and fidgeted. "I don't know what you mean, Albus."

"I mean to say that all the aurors and officials that you brought were actually Voldemort's Death Eaters—save one." Dumbledore glanced briefly at the blond following Fudge; the blond glanced back perplexedly before blushing, and—

Harry stared. It couldn't be, could it?

"P-preposterous!" Fudge exclaimed, though his voice sounded very strained.

"Professor Dumbledore, that suggestion is utterly ludicrous," the blond said in a very officious tone, and Harry snapped his jaw shut. It seemed impossible, but that blush and voice and posture were both Percy Weasley's. "We conduct strict background checks on the Minister's aides, and all swear an oath before entering their positions." _He's dyed his hair blond and gotten rid of his freckles_, Harry thought blankly. _He looks like_… _a Draco Malfoy wannabe_.

"I'm afraid your background checks are not very thorough, and that your oaths are easily broken," Dumbledore said. There wasn't a hint of humor in his voice. "I do not mean to accuse anyone—falsely or truthfully—but Voldemort has forces in more places than we know." Dumbledore turned the full weight of his gaze upon the Minister. Fudge shrank noticeably. "You know your responsibilities, Cornelius."

The Minister's eyes darted around in a manner that reminded Harry strongly of Peter Pettigrew. The sound of scribbling quills rose like the chirping of a swarm of locusts. "I—Albus, you—you—" Fudge gulped. "You—"

His eyes landed on Harry.

Dumbledore moved quickly. "Caius, please take Professor Snape and his son up to my office," he said, stepping in between Harry and Fudge. "I'll be able to answer some more questions, Cornelius, if you have any…"

Harry's jaw dropped. Going alone—with Cinna? He turned his face to Dumbledore, and the snake followed his movement, but Dumbledore was too busy calming Fudge, who resembled a hyperactive frog. Harry swallowed hard. One had to do what one had to do.

"Mr. Snape," Cinna said in his high-pitched voice. "Come along."

It took Harry a few moments to realize that he was being addressed. "Sorry," he said, and hurried after Cinna. _So I'm Mr. Snape now_, he thought, feeling warm and restless at the thought.

They left the Great Hall and entered one of the familiar corridors, strangely empty for the time of day. Snape's body floated after them, as though borne on an invisible stretcher. Harry didn't dare take his mind off the man before him: Cinna's walk was rather curious, like the gait of a loping ape, and his hands were clasped behind his back once more. The fingernails were yellow, like the gnarled claws of a turtle.

"_I don't like him_," the snake whispered. "_He reeks_."

"_Don't say that_," Harry answered, though he privately agreed with the first part. He wondered if Cinna, by some twisted magic or fate, could understand Parseltongue.

"Gummy bears," Cinna intoned, and the gargoyle clambered aside. They made their way up the stairs, which Harry found rather challenging, as there hadn't been any stairs in the portrait world and the snake forgot to look down the first few steps.

Finally they reached the oak doors, and Harry noticed, a bit sheepishly, that they were wide open.

Cinna paced inside and looked the doors up and down. Harry followed, and Snape drifted in before resting gently on a couch.

"I opened them," Harry said after Cinna had bent down to sniff at the door. Cinna paused, still in his kneeling position. "I—er—forgot to close them behind me." He remembered the panic and whirling onslaught of new sensations he had experienced right after leaving the portrait world.

"You entered here," Cinna said, and his voice felt dangerous.

"I came out of—where I had been," Harry said, choosing his words carefully. He felt the snake move slightly from around his neck, creeping out a bit more.

"Indeed," Cinna said slowly, as though contemplating his next move.

Harry took a few steps to his left, all the while facing Cinna, and sat at the head of the couch on which his father lay.

"You are Harry Potter," Cinna said suddenly.

Harry sat frozen, wondering whether to confirm or deny, though, he thought, if Cinna had figured it out, it would be rather pointless to deny it. He wondered briefly if it was his scar that had given him away, and hoped it had been instead of something he wasn't aware of. "Yes," he said, and wondered if Legilimency worked on the blind.

Cinna chuckled. He sat down in Dumbledore's high-backed chair in front of the wide desk, and Harry was startled at how quickly Cinna took the upper hand.

"I never thought Severus would have a child," Cinna said, as though to himself. "And I would never have dreamed that that child would be the savior of the wizarding world."

Harry sat as still as stone. He wished Dumbledore would arrive, or that his father would wake up. But on second though, perhaps he didn't want his father to wake. He remembered the terror Cinna held over Snape, and Harry knew what shame his father would feel if he knew that anyone—whether his son or James Potter's son—had witnessed it.

He reached out a hand and put it close to, though not quite touching, his father. Cinna didn't seem to notice the movement. Harry was rather glad he could observe Cinna through the snake while his own eyes were closed: Cinna's expression seemed to settle naturally in a secretive smile, like a well-fed monkey, and his sparse blond hair was swept back over his scalp.

"And so it makes sense," Cinna said, again as though to himself. "Though Riddle knows of this power, the heirdom to Slytherin, he does not possess, and it makes the two of you more than ever equals." He looked at Harry, and Harry tried not to tense as he met the gaze of those pale eyes. "You, Dumbledore's greatest hope. His… _protégé_."

Harry thought he should say something. "You're… mistaken," he managed.

"Was any bit of it untrue?" Cinna said softly, concentrating the full weight of his gaze on Harry. His eyes, Harry noted, were a gray that seemed yellow, like lanterns in the fog. "But I am surprised that Harry Potter is so eager to claim Severus Snape as his father." A pause. _Go away_, Harry thought angrily. _Just go_. "The Harry Potter most people told me about seemed quite hostile towards dear _Severus_."

"Don't call him that!" Harry snapped. He was surprised at how vehement he was.

"And why not?" Cinna asked, coldly, as though to remind Harry who was the professor, who was the student.

"He may not appreciate it," Harry answered, equally coldly. His heart was pounding, as though he were dueling with the other wizard.

Cinna's lips curved into a smile. "The filial son, indeed. You are quite different from the golden Gryffindor boy Dumbledore gushed over. I daresay the world at large will be in for a very interesting surprise. And your—friends, as well."

_Just shut up!_ Harry thought. He wanted to leap forth with a curse or hide behind the couch, but he did neither. Cinna was goading him, but not without truth. Harry knew he had changed, and knew that the change was drastic and irrevocable. Ron had rejected him—his stomach clenched at the memory—and Hermione, Neville, Ginny… Even if they decided to accept him, things would never go back to the way they were, because the Harry Potter they had known no longer existed.

He suddenly thought of Draco—Draco, who knew him as he was, and… He felt a prickling of panic, remembering the way Draco had fallen after being hit by Lucius Malfoy's spell. Draco hadn't died, had he? _He can't have_, Harry thought. _Lucius Malfoy wouldn't kill his only son, and Malfoy values his own hide—his own family—above all else_…

Cinna's smile grew deeper. "I'd like to see Dumbledore wriggle out of this one. He knows the current climate, the public opinion…"

Harry frowned. He opened his mouth to ask the other wizard to elaborate, but at that moment, the door opened and Dumbledore entered. Cinna, Harry noticed, immediately stood up and moved away from Dumbledore's chair.

"Ah, Harry, Caius," said the headmaster. He looked quite tired as he shut the door behind him and gave each of them a smile. "Is Severus…?" Dumbledore moved to the couch where Harry sat and Severus lay, but he paused with his wand in the air. "Caius, I believe Minerva could use your help in the Great Hall."

Cinna bowed. "Yes, Headmaster," he said solemnly. Turning only slightly, he left the office in a way that reminded Harry strongly of the way Death Eaters left Voldemort's presence.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Well, that's that," he said. He bent over slightly and tapped Snape gently with his wand. "_Enervate_," he murmured.

Snape stirred. Harry felt the snake swiveling around his neck. He kept very still as the eyes fluttered open.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Welcome back to the world of living."

Snape frowned. "What…" His eyes darted here and there, taking in the details of Dumbledore's office, before landing on Harry.

"Potter," Snape said in an effortlessly cool voice and sat up.

Harry felt his heart crack. "Professor," he said a moment later. He moved aside so that Snape could have more space on the couch, so that there would be no chance that they might touch.

"What happened, Albus?" Snape asked. Through the snake's eyes, Harry could see that Snape was staring intently at Dumbledore—_as though I didn't exist_, Harry thought. He shut that thought down quickly and wished the snake would stare ahead stonily they way he pretended to be. Usually the snake stared at whatever he faced, but sometimes, the snake peered at whatever it wanted to. "I remember thinking that I was going to die because the Dark Lord had managed to blow my cover. I remember…" Snape stopped.

"Do you remember," said Dumbledore slowly, softly, "that your son saved your life?"

Snape's face was inscrutable. He said nothing. Harry wanted to get up and shout at his father—_you called me Harry, you called me that, and you let me save you! You owe me this!_ But he didn't. He kept numbly quiet.

The silence lasted an eternity.

Dumbledore sat back. The snake shifted slightly, and Harry saw that Dumbledore looked weary again, disappointed. "Harry," he said. He sounded almost apologetic. "Welcome back."

Harry tried to manage a smile. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore."

"You quite frightened us for—nearly a month, yes. Disappearing without a trace."

_He wants me to tell him things_, Harry thought. Suddenly, the warmth he had felt for the headmaster disappeared so quickly he had the overwhelming urge to cry. It was too much too soon. _So Dumbledore's trying to do it again, trying to twist me into confessing it all_… His thoughts stopped. The snake had settled its gaze on the deep circles under the eyes, the twinkle that was only half as bright as before, the wrinkled old hand that was whiter than snow on the vibrant robes.

"I went into the Chamber of Secrets," Harry said. He wondered if he was being manipulated. "I don't really know how I got in there. I—"

Snape snorted. Harry stopped, his throat a tightened knot.

"Severus," said Dumbledore in a very ominous voice. Snape made no other sound.

Harry continued with effort. "I—I remember…" He fell silent and thought back. Both Snape and Dumbledore waited silently. "I remember footsteps and someone running towards me. But I couldn't see. And the next thing I remember is falling, falling into the Chamber. And when I woke…" He stopped. It seemed all a dream, now, as though it had all happened in another world—and in a way it had. Saying it to Dumbledore, to Snape, made it sound so… fantastical. "When I woke, the snake"—he briefly touched the snake around his neck and shoulders—"led me to the memory of Salazar Slytherin."

"The memory of Salazar Slytherin?" Dumbledore asked, frowning. Harry thought that Snape might have straightened a bit, but he couldn't tell, for the sound was nearly imperceptible under Dumbledore's voice, and the snake kept staring at the headmaster.

"Yes. It told me that it had been… waiting for me. And then it told me a few—things, about my heritage, and after that, just before he vanished, he sent me into the world of paintings. He called it a gift of time. And earlier today I came out from…" He gestured at the walls. "One of the portraits." He knew that the way he told it made it sound as though all that had happened in the space of a morning when it had stretched over days, weeks, but he didn't want to go into details with Dumbledore there. If there was anyone he might tell his secrets to—

He stopped the thought.

Dumbledore looked quite startled. "You were sent into the world of _paintings_?"

Harry nodded, hoping that the apparent impossibility of the statement would distract Dumbledore from probing into the obvious blanks.

"You forget, Albus, that none knew the enchantments of Hogwarts more thoroughly than Salazar Slytherin," Snape said, a bit haughtily. For a moment Harry tried to imagine that it was pride directed at _him_—he was Slytherin's heir, after all; but the moment faded into futility.

Dumbledore sat back. "Most interesting," he said. "And so you emerged—just in time for Voldemort's little show at the press conference over Argus Filch's death."

Harry nodded. _I can play this game, too_, he thought. He wished his father would say something, anything. "I hadn't been able to… push myself to go out until I felt it, until I felt Voldemort down there." He paused, teetering on the verge of saying: _and my father screaming, hurting_._ How could I not go then?_

Dumbledore nodded slightly. "And then you managed to do what no wizard or witch alive could do: you removed the Dark Mark."

He looked towards Snape, and the snake followed his movement. Snape's left arm was still covered by his black robes, and nothing could be seen. "I think I could only manage it because it was—" He stopped, still staring at his father's arm. Then he looked up.

Snape was looking away, his face like a carving in ice, but somehow, that stillness of expression and aversion of eyes gave Harry the strength to finish his thought: "Because it was my father." Snape almost flinched.

"Ah, I _see_," Dumbledore said, sounding rather delighted. Harry closed his eyes and wished Dumbledore would shut up. "Would I be correct in assuming that Voldemort is a false heir?"

Harry frowned for a moment. "I think so. Actually—yes. Slytherin said so himself."

"Yes, very interesting," Dumbledore remarked. _What's so interesting?_ Harry thought irately. It was—the realization of his intent dawned upon him—_his_ family's business, a matter within _his_ bloodline; and he was the Heir.

"Well, to a few, more—practical matters," Dumbledore said. He moved from the chair next to the couch to behind his desk, and Harry found himself comparing the way Dumbledore sat with the way Caius Cinna did. _Dumbledore seems much more harmless_, Harry thought immediately, and retracted the thought immediately. _Is it because he wants people to feel that way? Is it all an act?_

"Will you continue living in Gryffindor Tower?" Dumbledore asked.

"Well—yes," Harry said, though the thought filled him with dread. _Where else would I sleep?_ he thought. Certainly not the dungeons. Certainly not where his father made his lair. He wondered what his stuff would be like in Gryffindor Tower. _Perhaps Ron chucked it out a window_, Harry thought.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said and stood. "Well, Harry, I'm glad you're back." Then he smiled so genuinely that Harry was confused again.

"Sir, was anyone… hurt in the attack?" Harry asked hesitantly. It was a stupid question: how could anyone not have gotten hurt? But he couldn't bring himself to say _killed_.

Dumbledore's face became grave and weary once again. "Yes, unfortunately. But—there have been no fatalities." He smiled. "For that we thank your ancestor for the wards and enchantments he weaved."

"Oh," said Harry. "Yes."

Dumbledore turned his attention to Snape. "Severus, will you escort Harry back to Gryffindor Tower?"

Harry froze and felt his father do the same.

"Albus, I'd much rather _not_ be mobbed by Gryffindors," Snape said coldly. "And I have a few potions brewing in my dungeon…"

"Oh, surely you can spare a few minutes escorting your son to his house?"

A heavy silence fell. Harry could feel butterflies—or snakes, rather—writhing in his stomach. He could just imagine the scene. Snape pushing the portrait door open and marching in with Harry a few steps behind. Dead silence as all eyes glued to him, staring as though he were some mutant hippogriff. Would Snape say anything before fleeing, or would he toss out his usual barbs before leaving Harry to the lions?

"Perhaps I should make this clear, Dumbledore," Snape said through gritted teeth. "I have no intention of escorting your precious savior to his private fan-club of self-righteous Gryffindor brats!"

For the first time in a long while, Harry felt towards this man—Snape—an emotion that had slumbered fitfully in the portrait world: anger. It was an anger that made him clench his fingers together and the snake hiss from around his neck. Hadn't he saved Snape? Hadn't he put forth his claim first, and had it accepted? And it wasn't only anger, he knew. It was also the age-old hurt. _He's acting as though nothing in the past few months had happened_, he thought bitterly. _As though he hadn't ripped me to pieces, as though I weren't his son_.

"Perhaps I should make this clear, Severus," Dumbledore said coldly. "You are going to escort your son to Gryffindor Tower, and then you will come back to my office, and we shall have a quiet little chat over mint tea."

Snape stood up. He seemed ready to spit fire, and his shoulders were tense as misshapen blocks of marble. "Very well, headmaster," he said shortly. He spun around. "Up, Potter!"

Harry stood.

Snape stormed to the oak doors and pulled them open, stalking out before Harry had even left the vicinity of the couch.

"Harry!" Dumbledore called.

Harry stopped.

"I forgot, dear boy…" he muttered. Harry turned. Dumbledore had opened a drawer in his desk, and after some fumbling he took out a wand. _My wand_, Harry thought, his heart skipping a beat.

"Yes, your wand," Dumbledore said, smiling. He held it out, and Harry moved forward, took it. Warmth spread from his fingers over his arm and the rest of his body.

"Thank you, professor," Harry said, gripping the wand. He turned around and slipped his wand into his robes, comfortably close to his body.

"And Harry," the headmaster said, voice soft and earnest. "If there is anything at all you would ever want to tell me, my door is open to you. Always."

Harry nodded without turning and continued out the door.

He didn't feel like hobbling down any faster than he had to, so he let the spiraling staircase slowly deliver him to the bottom. Once there, he hesitantly pushed open the doors and moved to where Snape waited.

"Took you long enough, Potter," he sneered.

Harry felt the snake hiss at his neck. He ignored it, and said nothing.

Snape gave a little grunt and stalked down the hall at a furious pace. Harry hurried after, noticing dryly that keeping pace wasn't too difficult with his longer legs and the gift of lightness. The corridors and hallways seemed different from what the remembered. Perhaps it was the snake's vision, he thought, watching his father's cloak billow. Snape. His father.

They reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Oh, hello," she said, blinking at them. She looked at one, then the other. "Are you in the wrong part of the castle, dearie?" she said, addressing Harry.

"He is not, actually," Snape snapped. "Potter, the password."

"Er…" Harry stopped. "I don't know, actually."

"You don't know," Snape repeated slowly, as though to stretch out its stupidity.

"How would I know?" Harry countered heatedly. "When I was here in the summer, there weren't any passwords, and I never went into the tower after term began. You know that—_father_."

Harry didn't know why he said that last bit, but he could blood flush his face at his own daring, his own anger, or perhaps his own folly.

Snape hissed. "Don't you dare call me that!"

"You have no right to deny me it!" Harry said fiercely. The snake was staring at where Snape stood, arms crossed and shadowy, eyes glinting madly. "If you don't want me to say it, why did you accept my claim against Voldemort's?"

Snape flinched at the name. "Ten points from Gryffindor for disrespect towards a teacher!"

Harry went on. "Why do you hate me—even now, when I'm anything _but_ James Potter's son? You were more—reasonable, before you knew that I was your son." Harry felt the dangerous aching at the back of his eyes, the soreness at his throat. "What have I done wrong? What did I do wrong—simply by being born to you?"

"You _lived_," Snape hissed dangerously. "And you are an idiot to think what happened in the Great Hall was any form of your so-called _acceptance_. My life was in danger, and you, _Potter_, presented me with the opportunity to save it. I took it. And that was all."

Harry's mouth snapped shut. "Then perhaps I never should have saved you," he said coldly, though, even through the heat of his anger, he knew those words were hollow. Even if he had known this would occur, he would have done the same. And he had known that this might—probably would—occur. And still he had done it.

Snape sneered. "Perhaps indeed. Or perhaps you should not have expected any return for your altruism."

"Considering what house my father belonged to, that's rather impossible," Harry said acidly. "But it's done, and you owe me a life debt."

The portrait door creaked open.

Snape seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but he stopped, with visible effort. He strode forth and flung the portrait open all the way. The third year, who was halfway over the threshold, stumbled back with a squeak under Snape's glower.

"Get in, Potter!" Snape barked.

Harry clambered into the common room, still fuming, making sure that he didn't stumble and make a fool of himself in front of Snape. He wondered if his father—if _Snape_—would come in as well, but the professor merely slammed the portrait shut. _As expected_, Harry thought irately.

Then he looked up and noticed the silence.

Harry gulped. His anger ebbed away, leaving him feeling small, bereft. He wished suddenly that he weren't looking through the snake's eyes, that each blank and hostile look weren't branded into his brain.

The faces were all familiar, as were the comfortable couches and glorious tapestries. He knew that giant fireplace and the scratches in the tables, the feel of the stone inlays of the window seat, but at the same time it was all alien, all strange, all an alien world.

"Who're you?" one of the students asked loudly, challengingly.

Before Harry had the chance to answer, someone moved towards him. _Hermione_, Harry thought. He felt himself tense but made himself relax, remember what had happened last time; but Hermione stopped a few steps away from him and didn't touch him. "Harry? Is it you, Harry?" she asked hesitantly.

Harry nodded, feeling relief wash over him. He could hear the murmurs of disbelief and puzzlement all around him, but he ignored them. "Yeah, Hermione. It's me." Their words wrapped around him like a cotton cage—_Harry Potter? No, it can't be_… _But don't you remember at the Sorting Feast_…_? Down there, in the Great Hall, wasn't that him_…_? A Slytherin_… _Snape_…

Someone else came towards them, and Harry saw that it was Ginny. "Harry? Harry, you've—" She stopped, as though not knowing how to complete the statement, but her eyes strayed down and she jerked back. "Harry, there's a snake 'round your neck!"

A few of the Gryffindors gasped, screamed, scrambled back. _Damn it_, Harry thought, one hand going up to touch the snake. _I should've hidden it, or made it invisible_.

"_Utterly pathetic_," the snake hissed drolly.

Harry tapped at it sharply, thinking that it would be a very bad idea for him to answer. "Yeah, it's a snake, but it's not hurting me, and it helps me see things," he explained quickly.

"Oh," said Ginny.

An uncomfortable silence settled. He could tell that Hermione and Ginny and the rest of the room were wishing they could ask questions, wishing they could demand answers, but Hermione and Ginny couldn't because he was Harry, and the rest of the room couldn't because neither Hermione nor Ginny could.

Someone came down from the staircase leading to the boy's dormitory. Harry felt his heart turn to ice. It was Ron.

Harry watched the redhead descend the stairs, noting that Ron's head was bowed, and his face, what little of it that could be seen, seemed sour. _Ron's hardly ever like that_, Harry thought, as the Gryffindors in the common room shifted to make space for Ron, as though he were a tyrant descending from his high throne.

Ron looked up.

Hermione sidled between them. "Harry's back, Ron," she said, half hesitantly, half defiantly.

"Potter," Ron said suddenly. His face twisted slightly, sullenly. "So. Have you told everyone your _big_ secret? Oh wait, I forgot, you blurted it out in the Great Hall. Did Dumbledore send you here to say good-bye before you go to your _father_?"

Whispering arose, confused whispers— _His father? I thought his father was dead_… _James Potter_… _But remember what had happened in the Hall?_… _I couldn't see!_… _You-Know-Who_… _Snape_…

"Ron!" Ginny snapped. "What are you talking about?"

Ron sneered angrily. "Ask Potter—or should I say, _Snape_?" He crossed his arms and looked away.

Harry was reminded of a sullen, lost child. It was most unlike the Ron Harry had known, and the closest Harry could remember was that brief time in their fourth year, when Ron had been struck with jealousy over the Triwizard Tournament. _But what's there to be jealous about?_ Harry thought in disbelief. _It can't be_.

Ginny had stepped forward hesitantly. "Harry…?"

"Professor Snape is my father," Harry said without preamble. The whispers stopped abruptly. "I found out from a letter I received over the summer. It was from my mother, and time-delayed."

"Well, d'you suppose Snape'll be a bit easier on me, then?" said Neville lightly. Harry smiled in Neville's direction, but there were only a few chuckles: nervous, uncertain.

Ron glared. "If your father's a bloody Death Eater and you're finally admitting it, why're you still here?"

"Ron!" Hermione snapped.

"My father being Snape doesn't make me any less of a Gryffindor," Harry snapped, though the statement sounded so full of lies to him. He—the Heir of Slytherin—in Gryffindor house. But who was it that had said that the line between Gryffindor and Slytherin was thin? "And my father is no Death Eater. Voldemort"—a collective gasp that Harry promptly ignored—"only attacked him in the Great Hall because he was our spy."

"You mean—he _was_ a Death Eater?" someone shouted, voice full of alarm.

"_Was_—but no more," Harry replied. He didn't like the ensuing noise. It was low, rumbling, and ominous, and the whispers… _See, I always knew it_… _Should be in Azkaban_… _My Da knew him, and he always said that Severus Snape was a rotten apple—bad to the core_…

"He was our spy!" Harry shouted, but his voice was lost to the crowd. "He saved many lives!" he added, but his voice was less strong, for he couldn't help wondering—for every life Snape had saved, how many had he killed? Did this cold mathematical balance still torment his father's heart? Suddenly, everything was less clear than it had ever been, and the anger Harry felt became confused by sorrow and compassion. He remembered—a flash, strange and unbidden, seemingly from so long ago—Remus's voice reading his mother's letter: _He is a good man_._ Give him time; be patient_._ Voldemort hurt him just as much as he hurt me, and you, and all the rest of us_…

The crowd was restless, waiting, as though in an arena, for the next round.

Ron stayed sullen, silent.

Harry moved hesitantly. He left Hermione and Ginny where they stood and walked towards the staircase to the boys' dormitory. In a few steps he would pass Ron. Harry wondered if he should brace himself for a blow, or look down so he wouldn't trip over an outstretched foot, but the few steps passed, and nothing happened. He reached the bottom of the stairs with a feeling of relief. He made his way up.

The snake had turned its to look over his shoulder. As Harry ascended, hands brushing the walls and feet tapping the stairs, he saw the sea of people close behind him like the waves of a stormy ocean.

_Well, my stuff is still here_, Harry thought, surveying his bed through the snake's eyes. His trunk was there, unpacked, and his bed was bare. There was a mess in the rest of the dormitory, but the scattering of things seemed to shy away from his space. _Here I am again_, he thought, and wished he felt more at home.

Harry heard footsteps. _Three people_, Harry guessed. _And none of them Ron_.

Neville entered first. "There you are," he said, walking to his bed and sitting on it. Dean Thomas came in next, and Seamus Finnigan after him. Neither of them drifted from the doorway, and Harry noticed the way Seamus's gaze went over everything—the ceiling, the window, the beds, the carpet, the scattered pieces of parchment—everything, except for him. Dean seemed quite the opposite, and Harry felt himself getting uncomfortable under the other Gryffindor's stare.

"We were just… wondering," Neville said, "If you were okay." He looked pointedly at the two boys in the doorway.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah," he muttered. He looked down briefly before looking up again, and quickly looked down again when Harry turned his face so that his blind eyes met the gaze. "We just… wanted to make sure you were fine."

Seamus said nothing. His eyes darted from the window to the wall at the other side of the dorm.

Harry nodded. "I'm fine, thank you," he said and winced slightly at how formal he sounded.

"That's good," Neville said. There was a rather uncomfortable pause, and Dean and Seamus glanced at Neville, as though for some signal. "We didn't touch your things," Neville went on. He gestured at Harry's bed. "It's all there, I'm sure."

"Thank you," Harry said, noting how repetitive he sounded. He ran a hand over his coverlet. "So…" He stopped, thinking for something to say.

"You'll have to go to McGonagall for your timetable," Neville said, inspired. "We all got them the first morning. I'm in N.E.W.T.S. level Herbology and Transfiguration and—can you believe it—Defence Against the Dark Arts! I'd have failed without the D.A. last year, I'm sure."

"That's great," Harry said earnestly. "That really is. And you did it on your own, Neville." He paused, attention moving to the two boys in the doorway. "Dean, Seamus, what classes are you taking?"

"Ah—Transfiguration, Divination, and History," Dean said, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes darting up to Harry without daring to stay there long. Harry decided to take mercy and turned his face away, though the snake didn't avert its gaze. "I can't believe I didn't fail History of Magic…" He chuckled nervously, staring unswervingly at Harry once more. "I… uh… did fail Astronomy, though."

"So did I," Harry said, managing a thin smile.

Seamus cleared his throat. "Divination," he said hesitantly. "And—Herbology. Like Neville."

"I expect I'll be taking Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry said when a silence threatened to fall. "And maybe Charms and Transfiguration. And Potions."

This time a silence did fall.

"Well," Neville said awkwardly. "Um. We're glad you're back, Harry." He stood. Dean and Seamus had drifted out already. "Bye, then. I'm pretty sure classes are cancelled, so you might… come down to the Common Room, I suppose."

"Thanks Neville," Harry said. "I appreciate it."

Neville left, almost reluctantly, and Harry heard the three sets of footsteps descend the stairs and disappear.

"_They fear you_," the snake hissed. "_Those two that dawdled in the doorway like sheep_. _And the one on the bed didn't know quite what to expect_."

Harry sighed and gently stroked the snake. "_I know_," he hissed back. He could feel the sun from the window falling over his arm, his face. It was quiet in the room. Harry found himself… glad that he was… alone. "Again," he whispered aloud to the air, and his hand stopped stroking the snake, and fell still.


	16. Changed and Unchanged

_A/N: Many thanks to Procyon for preventing my grammar from falling apart._

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**Chapter 16: Changed and Unchanged**

He lay still for a long time after he awoke. He had woken up too early, judging from the stillness that shadowed the entire tower, and the snake was gone. Where was it? Why did it have to go now, when he needed it? He felt apprehensive about getting up without the snake. He had managed to make his way around before entering the Chamber, and he supposed he'd done it in years past, in those chilly mornings when he'd crawled out of bed, eyes half shut and mind half asleep; but now, as he bent his thoughts on swinging his legs out of bed, walking to the bathroom, opening the door, feeling for his toothbrush (he remembered that he had put it in the corner last night before going to bed), and brushing his teeth, he was confronted with terrifying unknowns. Worst of all was having to relieve his bladder. He was blind. How was he supposed to aim? He would have to sit, as he had done while convalescing in the hospital, and he'd have to be careful not to trip over the toilet. In the portrait, bodily functions seemed to have ceased. But now, once again in the world of the living, the smallest of problems took on colossal proportions.

Someone stirred. It would be best to be finished before the others awoke, he thought.

He clambered quietly out of bed, listening intently the entire while. The chorus of breathing was as familiar to him as the texture of his palm. He shuffled slowly across the room with arms extended, feet taking cautious half steps. Halfway across his big toe stubbed something; he edged around it, wondering what on earth it was; then he stepped on an inkwell and broke it with a loud crack.

Someone mumbled, sighed, and sat up with a rustle of sheets. Harry mentally cursed himself: why did he have to be clumsy?—

"Harry…?"

It was Neville. "I stepped on something," Harry whispered, keeping his voice as low as possible.

"Oh, Ron's inkwell."

_Great_, Harry thought, flapping his hands around to keep his balance as he kept his ink-stained foot in the air.

There was the sound of Neville stumbling out of bed. "Here, let me help…"

A hand took his upper arm, and Harry tensed.

"Go ahead and put your foot on the carpet. We'll get the house-elves to clean it later…"

_Relax. Relax._ He managed to obey without doing anything particularly embarrassing. "Am I going to step on something?"

"No, no, it's pretty much clear all the way to the loo—wait, let me move my Herbology book. There, it's all clear."

Harry walked hesitantly, his hands in front of him, until they touched the doorframe. "Thanks, Neville," Harry said sincerely.

"Don't mention it. D'you need me to get you your toothbrush, anything like that…?"

"No, I'm fine. Go get some more sleep. What time is it?"

"It's… I don't know. Just call me if you need anything. I'll be lying in bed."

Neville left, closing the door behind him, and moments later Harry heard the sound of a softly murmured cleaning spell.

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He'd have to work on that. This wasn't the portrait world anymore; he'd have to learn, or relearn, how to live with other humans—learn to touch and be touched, and to listen to words both kind and terrible and answer them with the cautiousness of a Slytherin and the earnestness of a Gryffindor.

He moved away from the door, keeping one hand on the counter as he headed for the stalls. As he took his little shuffle-steps, he hoped that nobody's robes were still on the floor. How had he been able to move so smoothly before, when he had been flying down the corridors to the Great Hall, or darting from portrait to portrait like a shadow? Maybe it was an unconscious thing. There was nothing that was unconscious about his trek right now: he could feel acutely the cold tiles and the slightly moist air and the smooth countertop under his fingers; he could hear the drip from some leaky tap and sense the moving water of some pipe under his feet. When he finally reached a stall, his heart gave a massive sigh of triumph and relief as he slipped inside and shut the door firmly behind.

The bathroom door slammed open. Footsteps and grumbling, both terribly familiar, and briefly Harry could see in his mind's eye the gangly redhead running a freckled hand through the shock of crimson hair. The shuffling continued close to his stall, and then he heard the sound from the urinal.

"Potter!" Ron barked in a rather slurred voice, sounding delightfully surprised, like a dog that had found a piece of meat lying unattended. Harry said nothing. Ron chuckled. "Sitting down like a little sissy? I didn't know little Slytherin traitors were like that."

Silence. _Please leave_, Harry thought. _Just leave_.

Then something hit the wall of the stall like a furious hammer—once, twice, a kick.

From outside came an angered voice, Neville's voice, "Ron! What are you _doing_?"

A pause. "Nothing," Ron yelled back.

_I wish I'd brought my wand_, Harry thought. He waited a moment longer, wishing fiercely that Ron would just leave. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, he heard the shuffling steps, moving at a surly, sullen pace out of the bathroom and over the carpet; then there was the sound of covers sliding aside and the low mumblings of voices.

Harry let out a sigh and buried his face in his hands, hands that were already wet with sweat. _I had better come out soon_, he thought. The bathroom was unusually empty: it was, he thought, because they knew he was in there. The thought was depressing.

Some time later, he left the bathroom, managing not to bump into anything as he crept into his dormitory. The noises were reassuringly familiar: Seamus, who was a very morning person, was talking animatedly to Dean, who grunted replies every so often. Neville was humming quietly under his breath, and—

Silence swept before him like the radius of a deadly spell.

Harry cleared his throat. "Good morning," he said as normally as he could.

"G'morning," Neville replied.

"Good morning," Seamus said cautiously.

Harry attempted a smile before making his way back to his bed. His heart was pounding inside him—he'd _never_ felt like this before, in the very place where he used to feel safest, where he used to feel _home_—

Something was thrust in front of him. He instinctively leapt into the air, just as Neville snapped, "Ron!"—

Harry landed lightly in front of his bed, his mind slowly, painfully making the connection: Ron had tried to trip him. Ron. His best friend. His best friend. He told himself that he had expected this—had _known_ this would happen; but hope was a traitorous thing, and as he felt his way back to his bed, he grimly cursed himself for his stupidity.

"How could you try to trip him? He can't see!"

"He didn't fall," Ron replied sullenly. Then, nastily, "And anyway, he doesn't belong here."

"Stop talking bullshit. And don't forget, Ron." Neville paused a moment, and Harry understood why with his next words. "I'm a prefect, Weasley."

_That means_… Harry frowned, hardly able to believe it. _But it's impossible!_ Why would Dumbledore would take the prefect badge from Ron—and give it to Neville? Not that Neville was incapable, but…

Harry moved into a squatting position, hands outstretched and patting at the area around him. He found his battered suitcase and fumbled with the latch, his train of thought broken. He'd think about it later, or maybe ask… ask someone about it. He opened his suitcase and felt for his school robes. He found the Hogwarts badge at length, and pulled it out.

"Harry, d'you need me to…?"

"I'm fine, Neville," Harry said. He'd need to get all his parchment and textbooks and quill and inkpot in his satchel, and then he'd have to find his shoes… Where did he put them last night? "I'll manage. Go on to breakfast."

"All right," said Neville. Harry was shoving his Potions book into his bag when he heard Neville say sharply, "Weasley, you go down first."

"Bastard," Ron muttered under his breath—too quietly, Harry thought, for Neville to hear—but he strode across the floor and down the stairs.

"See you, Harry," Neville said, and left.

Harry found his shoes under his bed (why had he stuck his shoes under his bed?) and pulled them on. He could hear Dean and Seamus's movements, their breathing and their rustling parchments, but they were silent. They were never silent. They were always talking, about the latest broom or the hottest Quidditch star, about living Muggle or living wizard—they were never silent.

"I'll see you all later," Harry said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder.

"Yeah," Dean said in a clipped tone.

Harry felt his way to the staircase and began to descend. As he went down the first few steps, he could hear Seamus and Dean's voices rising again, an indistinct murmur that seemed to bear him ill will, to whisper in satisfaction that he was gone. He shook his head, trying to dispel that strange and illogical notion. _Why am I thinking such things_? he thought, moving as quickly as he could through the Common Room. It was like wading through a pool of icy water. It wasn't the absolute silence of emptiness that confronted him: it was the unnatural quiet of whispers, whispers that he could hear, every word as distinctly as a drop of water in a well… "…_he had a snake with him, did you see?_" "_Snape's his father! He was never a Potter_…_"_ _"Death Eater's son, that's what my father says_…"

He shut the portrait of the fat lady behind and leaned against it for a brief moment before making his way down the corridor, his back ramrod straight. The thundering of his heart gave way to the bumble of voices from the Great Hall long before he thought it would. It made him sick in the stomach, listening to the voices grow louder and louder, louder than he'd thought possible. How had the Great Hall become such a howling, shrieking storm?

He was in it now, and the tempest raged about him. The Gryffindor table was right before him, but he couldn't tell which seats were taken. After a moment's hesitation, he moved resolutely up to the table.

"Excuse me—"

The girl next to him screamed shrilly. Harry winced as he listened to the spreading ring of excited babble like a shockwave from her scream. He waited, for some response from her, perhaps "sorry, you shocked me," or "I didn't see you," but none came.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me where there's an empty seat?"

"I… I…"

Another voice, hostile but quivering with fear: "Don't threaten her, Death Eater!"

Harry drew back. The voices swirled around him, trying to sweep him away like the wind tearing at a pale green leaf. He didn't know what to do, where to go; he was paralyzed with helplessness; where was the snake, where was Snape, where was his f— He cut himself off before the thought could be finished. What a childish thing to do, to wish for his father in the face of difficulty; his father hated him. He was alone.

"Harry!" It was Neville. Harry turned to the other boy, noting that there were other footsteps coming. "Really, Harry," said Neville in a fussy voice, "you should've let me help you down…"

"Hermione?" Harry said as Neville took his wrist.

The footsteps stopped. "Yes, how did you know?"

"It sounded like your walking," Harry said. "I…" he said and stopped. Neville's hand on his wrist felt like a manacle, a clammy palm with ruthless fingers.

"Harry, are you all right?"

"He's fine. Are you, Harry? Here, sit," said Neville and mercifully let go. Harry felt for the empty spot on the bench and seated himself shakily.

He flinched when a voice nearby shouted his name: "Harry!"

"Hey, Ginny," Harry said, hoping he sounded at least a bit glad to hear her.

"You're back!"

"Yeah." Harry picked up his fork and wondered what he might say. "Um. I am back."

"That's great!"

Harry winced internally at the artificial enthusiasm of her voice. "Yeah, uh, I missed all of you too."

The conversation was extremely strained—if it could be called a conversation at all. There was a wall between him and them, Harry thought sadly. They had asked, as politely as possible and consequently in a manner as awkward and embarrassed as possible, where he had been, and he had replied, skipping so many things that he was sure it made him sound guilty and flustered, something vaguely about being in the Chamber of Secrets—which was enough to send another shockwave of silence and excited whispers throughout the Hall.

"I think it's terrible," said Ginny in a forceful tone, interrupting Hermione's ramblings about what they had been learning in Transfiguration, "that Snape is your father now."

"Really?" Harry said mildly. "Why?"

"I know he's in the—old crowd and all, but like the _Prophet_ said—"

"Ginny!" Hermione snapped.

Harry sat up straight._ The Prophet_. He winced: while in the world of portraits, he'd forgotten about the press. "They wrote something today, didn't they?" he said grimly. "Can one of you read it for me?"

None of them replied for a moment. "Harry," said Neville in a careful sort of voice, "it's a really bad article—there's no point in reading it."

"I'd like to see what they're saying about me," said Harry. _And my father_.

"Well, I'll summarize it," Hermione said apprehensively. "Um. It was written by"—she sounded very strained—"Rita Skeeter—"

"What! I thought—"

"Yeah, but she registered," Hermione said morosely. "Anyway, the first paragraph is, you know, a recap about how everyone thought you'd gone over to the dark side since you disappeared. Then it talks about how you suddenly appeared and, um, went traitor on You-Know-Who and attacked your—attacked the Death Eaters you'd managed to smuggle in. And then it goes on about how you're actually Snape's son, and then it talks about Snape being a Death Eaters, and at the bottom, it quotes Dumbledore saying that Snape was a spy, but right afterwards it quotes"—she hesitated—"quotes Ron saying that Snape is… saying bad things about Snape. That, followed by Ron's little rant about you."

Harry swallowed his mouthful of toast. "That's…"

"A load of _shit_," Neville growled.

"It's interesting," Harry said neutrally. It was what he might have expected. "How much do the students believe it?"

"I think we're the only ones who don't," said Hermione dryly.

"Does Ron—?" He stopped himself before finishing the question and said quickly, "It'll wear off in a few weeks once they realize I'm not about to kill them."

"Yes," said Ginny enthusiastically, "and if you let them know how you never wanted Snape as your father, it'll help. I mean, you're still Harry, even though you look—er—really different."

"Yeah," Harry said carefully. "Of course."

"You could make a statement to the _Prophet_ like you did to _The Quibbler_ last year. I could—"

She fell silent, and Harry identified the approaching footsteps as belonging to McGonagall.

"Mr. Potter," she said. "I have here your timetable." She paused. "Professor Snape informed me that you had an animal with which you could see…?"

"Oh—er—it's not here right now," Harry said apologetically. _Where is that stupid snake?_

Harry felt a movement in the air as Neville took the sheet of parchment. "I'll read it to him," he said in a way that reminded Harry very strongly of Percy Weasley.

"If you would be so kind, Mr. Longbottom. And Mr. Potter, I advise you find your familiar right away."

"Yes, Professor. Thank you."

After McGonagall left, Harry turned to Neville. He was relieved McGonagall had stopped by; it derailed Ginny's train of thought and, anyway, he was curious as to what his timetable was.

"I'm sorry Harry," Neville said, suddenly sounding like the old Neville, trembling in the dungeons behind the twisted remains of a melted cauldron.

Harry frowned. "What?"

"You've got double Potions today. Then you get to have lunch with Dumbledore in his office."

"Oh." Harry felt his heart wilt. _Snape_. His father. Then Dumbledore. But mainly, Snape. He swallowed hard. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to have to go. "Well, does anyone else have double Potions with me?"

"I do," Hermione said briskly. "We'd better get going now, or else Snape'll dock points for being late."

Harry nodded mutely. He gathered his satchel and stood up. He was about to go when Ginny stepped up to him—too close; he flinched, but she didn't notice—and said fiercely,

"Don't let that slimehead get at you, Harry!"

Harry nodded, though he wished she'd step aside. "Yeah—I'd better go now." He took a few shaky steps in the direction of the dungeons. "Hermione?"

"I'm here," she said next to him.

He moved closer to her voice. He could hardly hear his own footsteps in this whirlwind of noises. "Am I heading in the right direction?"

"Yeah. Do you—mind if I hold your wrist?"

Harry hesitated. _She's observant_, he thought. "No," he lied firmly. He held out his hand and felt her take it after a moment's pause. "At least, I won't," he added quietly.

They were in the corridor heading down to the dungeons when he stopped.

"Can you lead me somewhere where there's nobody around?" he said, the sound of footsteps rustling at the periphery of his hearing. The footsteps lingered there, as though too afraid to get any closer but too morbidly fascinated to leave.

"Okay," said Hermione. "Here, I suppose." She pulled him into a smaller corridor that felt much more empty. "What do you need?"

"I need to call my snake," Harry said apologetically. "Um. Do you mind if I speak in Parseltongue?"

"Oh—no, not at all. Actually, I'd like to see—or hear it again. It's fascinating, really." She stepped aside. "Go ahead."

Harry reached out a hand and felt the wall. It was rather embarrassing, actually, and he wished Hermione weren't watching him, but he dropped to the floor anyway, lowering his face until he felt his hair brush the ground. He wasn't sure this would work, but it was worth a try.

"_Snake!"_ he hissed."_Where are you_?"

He felt the echoes of his call spread out in the walls of the castle, like the vibrations of a magical chord deep within the castle.

"_Snake_—?"

He heard someone from outside the corridor scream. Harry leapt to his feet and nearly lost his balance. He heard Hermione call his name, but he avoided her hands and darted to the entrance of the corridor.

He could hear only a confusing squabble of screams and shuffling feet, falling books and shattering inkpots, but he could feel the magic. Someone had just cast a spell, and another was on the verge of forming—

"_Stupefy!"_ a male bellowed. A spell splashed over the Hogwarts walls.

"_Snake_?" Harry hissed. _It's not hurt, is it_? he wondered.

A moment later Harry felt a familiar coolness against his shin. "_I'm here_," said the snake in a lazy sort of way. "_Did you want to see_?"

"_Look_! It's the Death Eater's son!"

Harry froze. He took a step backwards, all too aware of the whispers sprung up like a bitter wind. More and more people were coming and the whispers were increasing, and Harry knew that there was a crowd before him, a crowd as he could only half-remember, half-imagine—cast in shadow, eyes shifting and sparking with suspicion, lips twisted in murmurs, hands gripping wands tightly—

Harry heard footsteps behind him, and whirled around before he realized it was Hermione.

"What are all of you standing here for?" she demanded.

There was no reply, only silence, but silence could speak more terribly than words.

"Go to class!" Hermione snapped. "There's nothing to look at. You'll all be late, and you'll lose points. All of you, go!"

Gradually, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed.

"Honestly," Hermione said disgustedly. "Did you find—? Oh!" She started. "That's—er—your familiar, isn't it?"

The snake was coiled around Harry's shoulders now, and Harry reached up a hand to touch its head. "Yeah," he said with a fondness that surprised even him. "It is." He frowned reproachfully. "_Where were you? It was a nightmare waking up today_."

"_I was exploring the castle. I'll stay with you from now on if you like, arglwydd_."

"_Please do_," said Harry.

"It's… beautiful, almost," Hermione said in a hushed and slightly nervous voice.

"_Thank you, though you don't need to compliment for the sake of complimenting_," the snake said silkily.

"It can understand English, too," said Harry. "Really, I shouldn't speak Parseltongue to it—it'll only make them hate me." He pushed his mind into the snake, moving through the haze of whiteness until colors solidified. The familiar gray walls of Hogwarts appeared; the tapestries and paintings, the narrow windows and suits of armors, all rose again like ghosts. "We'd… best be going, I think."

"Yes."

He turned to her—and stopped. She was silhouetted against the brilliant light of the window, her features cast in darkness, and her hair seemed to form a shimmering halo around her face. There was a little breeze dusking from outside, stirring her hair and the edges of her robes.

Then she moved out of the light and looked up at him, smiling but looking rather bewildered. "Aren't you going?"

Harry nodded and cleared his throat. "Yeah." He shifted his satchel and followed her down the hallway.

qpqpqp

They were almost the last to enter the dungeons. Harry turned his head around anxiously, and the snake copied his movements; Snape was nowhere in sight.

"Over here," Hermione whispered.

Harry followed her down the aisle between the cauldrons. He noticed the glances and half-hidden looks, which seemed somehow to block out the sound of their whispers; it was better, he thought, to be actually able to see. Imagination tended to make this worse.

"_There's your friend_," the snake whispered, and Harry was glad it had the sense to pitch its voice so that it could easily be mistaken for someone's shoe scraping the floor.

"Who?" Harry whispered back.

His field of view swiveled: suspicious glances directed towards him from Terry Boot and Ernie Macmillan, who were whispering to each other behind their hands; Mandy Brocklehurst pretending to be unconcerned by his existence; and behind her—

_Draco_! Harry thought, and his first reaction was relief. So Draco wasn't too badly hurt after all. Evidently he was well enough to attend classes, and he wasn't encased in bandages either.

"Harry, how—much can you—I mean, obviously you can see with your familiar, but…"

"I am—er—fully functional, if that's what you mean," Harry said.

"Oh," said Hermione. She sounded slightly troubled. "That's great, but Snape is having us work individually, and I don't think you studied the potion last night, so…"

The door banged open (Harry nearly jumped out of his seat) and the familiar footsteps echoed through the dungeon, moving swiftly to the center aisle—close, too close to where he was seated.

"So, let's see how many of you have decided to cause potion accidents today."

Harry sat very still and very straight. He kept his head down, and was glad that the snake did the same, its eyes fixing its gaze on the cauldron on front of him.

"Hannah Abbott?"

"Here…"

The cool voice rolled off the names one by one. It was like all the other Potions classes he'd had in the past: Snape would layer the names with vague contempt, softening it with the name of a Slytherin, and sharpening it with a sneer at the name of a Gryffindor.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Here." Malfoy sounded strangely subdued, Harry thought.

"Theodore Nott."

"Here."

Harry waited with baited breath ("Padma Patil." "Here."); any moment now…

"Zacharias Smith."

"Here."

There was a pause. Harry glanced up. There was a strange look on Snape's face, one that was a cross between disgust and fear. The black eyes flickered to him briefly—so briefly it might've been his imagination—and in a flash, Harry understood. Almost he had the desire to laugh at the terrible irony of it all. _Harry Snape_? Dumbledore, he decided, was most impressive.

"Harry _Potter_."

Harry paused. He wasn't Harry Potter anymore. A year ago he had been, and a month ago he might have been, but no longer.

"_Potter!_"

"Here," Harry blurted out.

"Two points from Gyffindor for not paying attention," Snape sneered. He made a mark on the roll call. "So, you have finally decided to join us, _Potter_. Rest assured that your sojourn will make no difference at all in how I run this class, although I'm sure we're simply ecstatic at your presence."

Harry could hear a few tentative sniggers.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"Lisa Turpin."

"Here…"

"So we're working on the Invisibility Potion?" Harry whispered to Hermione after Snape had given a short lecture reminding them of the gruesome ways he was expecting them to be killed.

"Yeah," she answered, just as quietly. "Just—do everything I do and read the instructions; I looked it over, it's not too complicated, but Snape told us yesterday we had to—"

"Five points"—Harry froze: the cool, contemptuous voice was a mere breath away—"for disturbing the class with your incessant whispering," said Snape. "Granger, move next to Turpin."

Hermione gave Harry a look of helpless anguish. "Yes, sir," she said reluctantly, and gathered her books. As she passed him, she muttered under her breath, "Just remember to…"

"GRANGER!"

Harry jumped, and Hermione dropped her cauldron with a clang. She snatched it up and hurried to the opposite end of the room.

_Hermione said it wasn't too hard_, Harry thought, as all the other students rose to the supply cabinet. He was the only one still seated. _Relax_._ Read the instructions_. The ingredients were familiar to him: monkshood extract, mandrake essence, leech juice, fluxweed… There were quite a few parts that required him to wait, but… This step, where he had to add slowly a handful of fluxweed over a two-minute period while stirring under a shadow, seemed rather difficult… And the last step…

He got up. Hopefully there were enough ingredients that he wouldn't be left with the worst. As he crossed to the supply cabinets, he glanced across the room, at Draco, who was bent over his cauldron, seemingly unaware of those around him. The shoulders, usually held straight, were slumped, and the hair, most unusually, was less than perfect. _And no wonder_, thought Harry. _To be attacked by the one he loved and admired most_…

The fluxweed looked a bit too dried, but it would have to do. He went back to his cauldron.

"_This is disgusting_," the snake hissed quietly, sounding a bit sickly.

"Why?" Harry muttered in surprise.

"_Potions. Do you realize just how many disgusting things you're planning to boil together?_"

"_I do, actually_," Harry replied, lapsing into Parseltongue. He looked around; thankfully, nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him. "_Really, though, Potions can be interesting_." _And I am Snape's son_, he thought. He felt a surge of confidence. Even if his father hated him, he was still his father's son, the son of one of the most skilled Potion Masters alive.

Hermione was right: the potion wasn't very difficult. It was easy to get lost in the stirring, the cutting, the gentle addition of each ingredient… He didn't even notice Zacharias Smith's cauldron melting until the stinging scent of a smoking cauldron became particularly strong. But he seemed to have a sixth sense telling him whenever Snape was nearby. At those times Harry found it difficult to breathe, to concentrate, to think, to do anything besides turn stiff with dread and an anticipation of hurt.

He was at the last step now. He was almost done, and this would be first successful potion he'd completed by himself…

"So, how is Dumbledore's Golden Boy doing? Really, I'm surprised. No melted cauldron yet?"

_Sorry to disappoint_, Harry thought, concentrating on the frothing mixture. _Five_… _six_… He felt a moment of panic as he wondered if he'd lost count—did he count five twice?—but it was too late, and at the eighth rotation, he tossed in the fluxweed.

For a moment nothing happened. But then, the potion began to turn a sickly brown. Harry looked frantically at the instructions—even if he hadn't stirred the right amount of times, it wasn't supposed to turn _this_ color—

He felt Snape take a step closer; he swallowed and ran his mind over what could have gone wrong— He'd added the monkshood extract, the mandrake essence—

Then, like some kind of ghost rising from a forgotten grave, he remembered a conversation, so long ago… "_But, professor, doesn't the effect of the fluxweed negate the leech juice?_…_ Not if you dilute the fluxweed in monkshood extract_…"

In one swift motion, he grabbed the leech juice and tossed it—into an empty cauldron.

Snape was making a _tsk-tsk_-ing sound. "Pitiful, Potter," he said, mockingly sympathetic. "Even Longbottom's efforts exhibited a hint of intelligence. Clean out the leech juice. You're wasting supplies. Or, should I say, you are a waste of supplies?" The remark was made loudly enough that a few Slytherins chuckled. Snape's lips curved in a satisfied smirk as he made a mark on his grade sheet and moved on.

"_Did he just make your potion disappear_?" the snake hissed.

Harry nodded.

"_I should bite him_."

"_Don't_," Harry said sharply. He moved automatically, cleaning the leech juice that had collected in an opaque pool at the bottom of his cauldron. The sides of the cauldron were still warm, and, as he pressed his hands against them, even a little hot.

"_Arglwydd_…"

"_I know_," said Harry, taking his hands away. He straightened. "_You don't have to worry. I won't ever do anything like that again._"

"On the whole, pathetic," Snape announced. "There were, of course, a few stellar examples of said pathetic efforts"—his eyes went to Harry and his lips curled in a deliberate sneer—"and a few that were… acceptable." He glanced at Malfoy, but Malfoy didn't seem to notice. "Review the Age-Detection Potion. Class dismissed."

The other students rose as one and swarmed to the door. Harry watched the crowd apprehensively and decided to wait until it dissipated.

"Harry, did Snape—?"

Hermione was at his side, a worried look on her face.

"He hates me," Harry said simply, gathering his things. They headed towards the exit, and Harry realized that there was one other student who hadn't flooded out with the rest: Draco.

"Oh Harry. You were really close, too; I caught a glimpse of your potion before he went past, and it was really good."

"Yeah, thanks." Draco, walking a few steps ahead of them, glanced up briefly at their approach, and the gray eyes barely darting in Harry's direction before averting back to the ground. Then he sped his steps and quickly disappeared. Harry decided he'd talk to the Malfoy heir later.

"Why do you suppose Snape…?" Hermione stopped, suddenly awkward.

"Why do you suppose he hates me? Come on, Hermione. Just because I'm suddenly his son doesn't mean he has to like me one bit. Look at—look at Tom Riddle. He cast away his son without blinking an eye." _Look at my own relatives_, he thought, but he couldn't say it aloud. "This blood and kin thing is overrated."

"You sound sort of… bitter."

"Really," he snapped acidly. "Do I?"

"Yes you do," Hermione replied coldly. "In fact, you don't sound like Harry anymore. You sound like Snape."

"Hmm, I wonder why. Could it _possibly_ be that we're related?"

Hermione stopped walking. "Good-bye, Harry," she said. "I'll see you in Gryffindor Tower." She turned without making any eye contact, and left.

"_You were kind of rude_," the snake commented after she had left and the echoes of her footsteps had faded to nothingness.

Harry leaned back against the wall. "I—am—an—idiot." He sighed and buried his face in his hands, taking two handfuls of his hair and clenching them into fists, fists that shook as his face contorted with self-loathing and anger. Then he let go and sighed. This was great, really great. Now he had managed to drive off one of the only two people that had been nice to him after he'd returned—the one who had understood, better than anyone else, how hurt he was, and who had protected him when the crowd had surrounded him; with a few brilliantly chosen words, he had hurt one whom he had hurt already. He remembered with a sinking heart the blast of magic that had flung Hermione like a rag doll against the wall, remembered that she had forgiven him even as she awoke, even as Ron had condemned him.

"_I'm so stupid_," he moaned. "_Stupid—stupid. So this is why my father's so popular. What a wonderful set of genes I've inherited_."

"_Hmm, yes. You've certainly got the Slytherin looks_."

Harry snorted with laughter. Then he laughed again, in spasms that shook him like sobs. The fit passed, and he slumped back against the wall. "_I'd better go see Dumbledore, find out why he wants me_," he muttered. "_Oh, hell_. _Good old Dumbledore_."

qpqpqp

Fortunately he met nobody on the way up to the headmaster's office. He stopped in front of the ugly gargoyle and vaguely remembered that he had heard the password yesterday, when he had come up to the headmaster's office with Caius Cinna; what was it—?

"_Awake, door-watcher_," the snake hissed in a very regal tone.

The gargoyle did nothing. "I don't think it knows Parseltongue," Harry said skeptically.

Suddenly the gargoyle turned its head so that its eyes were staring right at the snake around Harry's neck. _So maybe it does_, Harry thought, rather unnerved by the gargoyle's stare.

"_This is the Heir, Slytherin's heir, to whom you owe more allegiance than any other living being_," the snake hissed. "_Open_."

The gargoyle continued staring for a moment before it clambered aside and did something Harry had never seen it do—put its front claws on the ground and lower its head to the floor.

"_Go on_," the snake whispered.

Harry went in. "What was it doing?" he asked as the staircase spiraled upwards.

"_Kowtowing. It's a show of respect. What's this Dumbledore fellow like?_"

"_Old and crafty_," Harry replied. They had reached the top, and Harry paused in front of the door. "_Why_?"

"_He's quite famous among the portraits_," the snake murmured. "_I should like to meet him_."

Harry decided not to say anything uncharitable about Dumbledore—and, after all, what might he have said? The things he had been angry at Dumbledore for doing, the cloaking of the Prophecy, had been done with love, and, at the end of all things, what could he say to that?

He knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Dumbledore called cheerfully from within.

Harry opened the door and stepped inside. He froze when he saw the person sitting at a table laden with mashed potatoes, sandwiches, and a jug of pumpkin juice.

"Potter," Snape said, narrowing his eyes in distaste.

Harry looked away, and the snake followed his movement. Dumbledore was sitting at his table, unwrapping a Muggle sweet with a look of anticipation on his face. There was only one chair unoccupied in the entire room, Harry realized, and that was across from Snape.

"Good day, Professor," Harry said to Dumbledore. He moved to the chair. "Father," he said and sat inside.

Snape set down his utensils with a clank. "Five points from Gryffindor for this blatant show of disrespect—"

"Ten points to Gryffindor for addressing the truth."

Dumbledore's tone was steely, and his blue eyes held no warmth. Harry wished the snake would stop staring at the headmaster.

"Since you've tricked me here so that I might suffer this brat's presence, please say what you've been planning, Dumbledore, so that I may leave as soon as possible." Snape wiped his mouth with a napkin and crossed his arms over his chest. "Rest assured that I've anticipated all your emotional tactics."

"There will be few emotional assaults today," Dumbledore replied. "Or, at least, they're not the main course. Do eat, Harry. You're looking awfully thin."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry. He reached a hand up to the snake's head and turned it so that it was looking down at the utensils. "_He's not that fascinating_," Harry muttered, picking up his fork and beginning to attack his mashed potatoes. He was, he discovered, naggingly hungry, but under Snape's glare, he found his appetite shriveled to nothingness.

"So, Albus, what is the order of business for today?"

Harry heard the sound of rustling parchment. "As you know, we managed to locate and bring to the headquarters the Dursleys. Through a channel of communication that I do not know yet—though I have my suspicions—the Ministry was able to gain this piece of information." Dumbledore's voice grew grave. "Fudge has made an ultimatum on me: to turn the Dursleys in to them, or to hold a trial with you, Harry, as the main witness."

_Trial_, Harry thought. _Me—witness_.

Snape snorted in disgust. "More glory for Potter, then," he muttered.

Harry concentrated on the texture of the mashed potatoes in his mouth. He swallowed it and focused his mind on the feeling of the bolus moving down his esophagus, the feeling of the silverware in his hand as he numbly scooped up another forkful of potatoes.

"Severus," Dumbledore was saying quietly, "I have made many, many allowances for you. But sometimes you go too far."

Snape was silent, though Harry was sure he could feel the hatred radiating from the man sitting across from him.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said gently.

"Is there—no other way?" he said, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Once again, Snape made a sound of disgust.

"I'm afraid there's not," the headmaster replied. "Fudge is hoping to use this as a propaganda piece. If, Harry, you should refuse, which is what Fudge is hoping, he's going to manipulate the Dursleys' words to his advantage. I understand that the Dursleys don't have a very favorable opinion of you, Harry. If you do go to trial, I expect that Fudge is going to try to portray you as… shall we say, a more serious version of Skeeter's article in your fourth year."

"A psychotic nutcase?" Harry suggested. He could hear the bitterness in his voice, sharp as thorns and pungent as bile. _Hermione is right_, he thought. _I do sound like Snape_. _I wonder if he realizes_. He cut down that chain of thought before it became unbearable.

"Harry?"

Harry took a deep breath. It was going to be hell, dragging out all the memories. Just casting his mind upon them, he could remember the feel of the sun, baking his skin, the gravelly voice whispering poisonous words in his ear, the hands raking his flesh…

"_Potter_!"

Harry jumped. "Yes," he said, looking up, straight into Snape's eyes. "I'll go to the trial."

Snape gave him a scornful glance. "Another grab at glory, Potter? Your current fame and fortune not good enough? Dear me, what a clever move to regain your disenchanted audience's pity."

"_Severus_!" Dumbledore cried in a voice that was at once angry and incredulous and upset—painfully upset in a way that Harry had never heard before. The outburst vanished with the iciness of his next words. "It pains me to say this, but your behavior is on a level comparable to your father's." The snake turned to Dumbledore, whose blue eyes were blazing like cold fire, but Harry hardly noticed. He felt a pain in his chest that rattled with every breath. "This boy is your son. And he is a son to be proud of and to love. But you have shown him only hate—hate stemming from your own cowardice."

The silence reverberated, like the dying knell of an enormous bell.

"Albus," said Snape, at length. His voice was slow and deliberate, quivering with—with what? hate? anger? fury? "This… brat is not my son. And he will never be."

"SEVERUS—"

The pain exploded, and Harry tasted something coppery at the back of his mouth. His stomach rebelled, and he spat it out. The world whirled as the snake turned its head, and Harry saw that it was blood.

"_Harry_—_!"_

Hands—more hands— The pain ebbed, but he felt a cage tightening around him, drawn closer by the storm of emotions and the hands that _wouldn't go_—

"_Don't touch me_!" he choked, giving a tremendous push with his feet.

He found himself crouching next to a slender metal pole. He reached up a hand and suddenly heard a swoop of music, just as his fingers touched a long, graceful feather. "Fawkes," he murmured. His voice was hoarse.

He heard footsteps approaching, Dumbledore's footsteps. "Harry…?"

"I'm fine, Professor," he said, and his voice was clear. He looked up, and the snake followed his gaze. Snape was still in his chair, but he tense and leaning forward, as though he were about to spring out of his seat but was held down by an invisible force. His face was ashen, and his eyes were wild with some unnamable emotion; but the moment he met Harry's gaze, the eyes became shuttered once more, and the thin lips twisted themselves into a sneer.

Harry averted his gaze and said, "Professor, do you mind if you complete the business you called Professor Snape here for?"

"Very well," Dumbledore said reluctantly. "I summoned Professor Snape here to inform him that, being Harry's last living and closest relative, he will be legally taking Harry in his custody as soon as the trial ends. In fact, I have already filed a tentative claim so that, during the trial, Professor Snape will take the place of Harry's guardian."

Snape let out a hiss-like breath. "So you have dictated my life once more, Headmaster," he said in a low, trembling voice. "I absolutely refuse. After the trial, I will give that brat up for adoption—and being his legal guardian, there is nothing you can do about it. After all, I am 'dangerous,' according to the Ministry, and Potter's legion of fans will be most eager to fawn over him."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "Harry, would you mind letting me talk to Professor Snape alone for a while?"

Harry got to his feet. "No, of course not." His voice was a bit unsteady.

"If there's anything at all…"

"I understand," he said, and fled.

He had a headache once he reached the bottom of the stairs. He knew what it was: the wretched pounding of suppressed tears, tears that had nowhere to go but to dissipate with time. He nearly tripped as he went past the gargoyle—and almost bumped into a man heading up the stairs.

"Sorry," Harry said. "Professor Cinna!" he gasped, recognizing the pale, hairless features and the self-satisfied smile.

The yellowish eyes ran over him with surgical precision. "Why the rush, Potter?" Caius Cinna remarked. "Or, should I say, Snape?"

"Uh—lunch," Harry lied, wishing to leave as quickly as possible. "Good-bye, sir," he said, and continued hurrying down the corridor. He didn't know where his feet were taking him—certainly not to the Great Hall, or to Gryffindor Tower. Fleetingly he wondered if he could hide in the Chamber of Secrets, but he knew that the temptation to keep hiding down there, deep in the dark and dank and utter stillness, would be too strong.

He stopped in the middle of a long corridor, lit only by a narrow window at the very center. The light fell across a door, and Harry, by some instinct, reached over and opened it.

He stood stock still when he looked inside. It was empty, but he knew the bed, the window, the portrait on the opposite wall. This was the room in which Draco Malfoy had hidden and talked to him, the room that was mirrored in the world of portraits.

He went inside, moving as slowly as a man at the threshold of death, and shut the door.

"_Looks familiar_," the snake murmured.

"Yes," Harry replied wearily. He moved slowly to the bed and slumped onto it. "Why?" he muttered. He took a deep breath. "WHY?"

Harry let the world fade to whiteness and felt the snake slide from his shoulders. "_Not everything can have a reason or an explanation_," it murmured.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. "_Why did he send me back—why? Why did he give me the strength to stand it?_" He choked, swallowed, and continued. If he hadn't been speaking in Parseltongue, the words would have been caught in his throat, mixing with the tears, never to emerge."_Why couldn't he just have left me there in the Chamber—and let me break?_"

"_Because you don't have that luxury_," the snake answered with surprising firmness. "_You don't luxury to escape into madness, arglwydd. It isn't your fate. You are the Heir_."

"_But why—why me, WHY?_" It was difficult to breathe; he had to gasp for breaths, forcing them past the dry convulsions. More than anything he wished he could cry—here, alone, engulfed by the numbing whiteness…"_When might this stop? When might I live like anyone else? I don't want much, just—just a place I can call home, friends, family_…"

"_You know the answer, arglwydd. You know it._"

Did he know it? Did he know the answer? He felt his breathing calm, the racking sobs even out and fade. Then he chuckled bitterly, laughing without sound, without humor. "_You're right. I do know_." The laughter careened hysterically, like a boat tossed by a raging sea."_The answer is—that there is no answer! There is none! There will never be a resolution—never_."

He felt the snake wrap comfortingly around his leg. Strange that this touch, so much more intimate, awakened no memories from the summer. "_There may be an ending to your story, but true, there will never be a resolution. And perhaps you can learn to take strength in that_."

_Take strength_? he wondered. How could he ever take strength from this—this endlessness, this loneliness, this vast indifference? _All I ever really wanted_, he thought—_ All I ever wanted_— _All I ever_— He clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. _All I_—

Slowly but surely, with cold determination, he beat the thought to death.


	17. A Meeting of Ways

_A/N: Once again, many thanks to Procyon Black!_

* * *

**Chapter 17: A Meeting of Ways**

Harry found himself curiously unable to tell whether he was masterfully good at pretending or if he really didn't care anymore how Dumbledore ran his life.

After Harry had left the mirrored room, feeling tired and dull and empty, McGonagall had found him on his way back to Gryffindor Tower and had told him that the headmaster wanted to see him. So he had trudged back to the headmaster's office (fortunately seeing neither Snape nor Cinna on the way there), and had been confronted by a weary but valiantly cheerful Dumbledore.

"Normally you would be taking Care for Magical Creatures," the headmaster had said, pointing at the blank spots on his timetable. "But considering the situation, you will be taking a combination class of Dueling, Healing, and, if necessary, Occlumency." Harry's snake had followed the headmaster's fingers aptly, and several times Harry had had the desire to withdraw his sight from the snake's mind and tell Dumbledore to hurry up and get it over with.

"Who's to be the instructor?"

"It will be Professor Snape."

Professor Snape. Why not 'your father?' Harry digested the information, waiting for and dreading the emotions that would come, but he found himself too tired or too dead to feel anything.

"All right, professor," he said.

He thought Dumbledore was, judging from the infinitesimal pause, more than slightly surprised, but the headmaster recovered quickly.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore beamed. "Now, I believe that last year you were the head of an unofficial club, the Defense Association?"

"Yes, professor," Harry said cautiously.

"Are you planning to continue it?"

Harry opened his mouth. "I… hadn't even thought of it, to be honest. But—no, I don't think so."

"But why not, Harry? We've had some of the highest OWL scores ever. And in times such as these, it is imperative that we are prepared to meet the darkness."

It took Harry a few moments in order to formulate his words. "Professor—you have to be realistic. They'd never follow _me_, not anymore." _Not after they discovered that I'm not really Harry Potter_. He tried to imagine it: himself, in the Room of Requirement, speaking to an unlistening crowd, a crowd that only stared and whispered and threw him dark looks.

"At least try, Harry."

Try. He knew about trying, about laboring endlessly and blindly down the path that ended in failure; he knew the despair of trying, the hopelessness.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "What can it hurt?"

Harry almost wanted to reply to that, but he kept his mouth shut and realized, dimly, that there were many things that Dumbledore did not know—and, perhaps, could not know—and this was one of them. But he found himself curiously resigned, almost removed. So he said, "As you wish, then."

"Harry"—said Dumbledore in a stern, commanding sort of voice—"it is not as _I_ wish. It is _your_ choice, and that I will not remove from you."

_So he wants me to assure him that it's 'my choice_,' Harry thought, the voice in his mind sounding eerily Snape-like. _What a load of shit_. "It _is_ my choice," Harry said, trying to inject some quality of earnestness in his voice. He let a pause carry through, so that the words would have time to sink in, before asking, "Is that all, professor?"

Dumbledore didn't reply for a long moment, and Harry was suddenly glad that the snake was still looking at the headmaster's clasped hands and not at the penetrating blue eyes.

"Yes, that is all," said Dumbledore. He sounded more grave than usual, and Harry felt slightly uncomfortable—but only slightly. "And if you ever need someone to talk to, my door will be open for you."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, got up, and left.

And now he was wondering how he was going to deal with everything. There was nothing he could do about classes with Snape besides think of them as little as possible and pretend to be dead while Snape grilled him with insults. But to attempt to restart the DA…

"Password?" asked the Fat Lady. Harry couldn't help noticing that her voice was much cooler than he remembered. Had the snake not been fixated by a spider crawling up the wall, he was sure that her face would have reflected the same aloofness.

"_Aerinha_," Harry said, and the portrait swung open grudgingly.

"—imagine how much he'd've been influenced!"

The voice burst upon him like a bucket of water. Harry glanced to where Ron was speaking and found the redhead like the hub of a wheel, with the spokes of nearly half the Common Room's attention drawn towards him. But as Harry entered, almost everyone's head snapped up, their glances darting to him before quickly flitting away.

"And more," Ron continued obliviously, his voice carrying the infecting quality of a narrative, "remember how a bunch of us disappeared last year? It was because we had been following _him_ to rescue his Death Eater godfather."

Harry froze as though he had walked straight into an invisible wall. As if sensing his presence, Ron stopped and abruptly turned around.

"_Potter_," Ron said, surprised, before his face twisted into a sneer. Harry found himself almost unable to believe Ron's expression. He had never thought such a look could appear on the face that had once been a palate of good-natured laughing and pouts, sincere sorrow and happiness.

"Ron," he returned as evenly as he could.

"I was just telling everyone about Sirius Black. You know, the one who killed thirteen Muggles in one blast and escaped from Azkaban?"

_How dare you bring in Sirius? How dare you_— Harry clamped down furiously on the burning tide of emotions before they could crest. "Yes, I'm certainly aware of his existence," he answered coldly. "It would be exceedingly difficult not to be."

"He was your _godfather_, wasn't he? And you met him and talked to him, even went to visit his _house_?"

There was a collective murmur. "Black had a _house_?" one of the first-years whispered.

"Of course," another answered scornfully. "He was a _Black_. They're even richer and older than the Malfoys! Of course they had a house—probably chock-full of Dark Arts things and stuffed house elf heads…"

"AND," Ron continued, and the crowd quickly hushed, "Harry's broomstick was a Christmas gift from Sirius Black!"

Just as the murmurs rose again, there was a thudding sound from the other end of the room.

"_Honestly_," Hermione snapped, pushing an enormous, fraying book into her bookbag. She got up and marched across the room. Her hair seemed to lift from her shoulders in her anger, and her back was as rigid as the gleaming blade of a heavy sword. "That _Firebolt_ was checked by both McGonagall _and_ Dumbledore for jinxes or curses, and there were none."

"But Sirius Black might've—"

"_Moreover_," Hermione interrupted in a very loud voice, "Ronald Weasley's very own _owl_ is from Sirius Black."

A gasp rose from the crowd, and quite a few Gryffindors scampered away from Ron, who glowered awkwardly and looked torn between anger and embarrassment.

"_His face resembles the buttocks of a baboon_," the snake observed sagely, and it lifted its head to get a better view before Harry hastily pushed it back into the relatively inconspicuous confines of school robes.

"Oh yeah?" Ron shouted. "Granger, your _cat_ talked to Sirius Black!"

"Really," Hermione said in a bored manner, pulling a book out from under an armchair and dumping it into her satchel. "I didn't know wizards had the ability to talk to cats. That's one thing I didn't learn from the papers." She walked up to Harry, and Harry felt her hand reach out to grab his. He tensed, but even before that, she had withdrawn her hand. "Come on, Harry."

Harry followed Hermione as she pushed open the portrait door. "But where—?"

"Library," she answered curtly. "I'll see you later, Ronald!" she shouted as Harry made his way out. "Hopefully you'll have information on the special skill of talking to cats!"

She slammed the door shut and began briskly marching down the hall. Harry hurried after her silently, his longer strides easily catching up with her.

"You can't imagine how annoying it is to be studying with him raving like a madman," Hermione muttered fiercely. "The moment he gets into the Common Room he begins to talk, and all those other idiots believe him like he's some kind of prophet! I don't _understand_ him! And I don't know where Neville or Ginny went. At least the idiocy might've been slightly more balanced."

Harry looked at her silently. He hadn't said a word, and, frankly, he didn't know quite what to say. It… touched him that Hermione would still stand up for him after everything changed. And anyway, after what had happened before they last parted, she was supposed to be mad at him.

"Here, let me carry your books," he said, reaching out a hand.

"Oh, no, I—" Hermione said, but Harry had taken her satchel already and hoisted it over one shoulder.

"What do you _have_ in here?" he asked, and stopped as the snake dipped its head to peer into the bag. "_That was rhetorical_," he said dryly as the snake languidly righted itself with a haughty sniff.

"Books," Hermione replied simply. They walked a bit more before she continued. "It's horribly frustrating, you know, not to be able to just tell them all that Sirius was innocent and Ron is being a jealous idiot. Honestly, that's the only explanation, isn't it? That he's being bitter and jealous and idiotic… But of what? And he's had five years to get used to it!"

They were nearing the library now. Silence followed them as they walked, but it wasn't an awkward one. It felt like a glove, Harry thought, a perfectly tailored glove, warm and soft on a cold winter day.

"I know what it's like," Harry said. "It just doesn't make sense. But sometimes, it just is. And there's nothing at all we can do about it."

"There's always something," Hermione murmured as they walked in under Madam Pince's glare. "I'm not quite sure I like it."

"Like what?"

"That kind of… mindset. That pretty much leaves no space for free will."

Harry shrugged as they seated themselves. "Free will," he said. "I would've liked to have the free will to choose which mass murderer to be after my head. I might've chosen one slightly less troublesome than Voldemort."

"I'm sure your pre-born soul had no idea what it was getting into," Hermione replied shortly as Harry began to haul out books. "Be careful with that one! Madam Pince said she'd ban me from the library if a single page gets ripped."

Harry frowned at the title. "_The Comprehensive Guide to Ministry Rules and Regulations and How to Approach Broken Laws_? What are you reading this for?" He looked up. "Don't tell me you're planning to break some more rules?"

"What do you mean, some more? And no, I'm trying to see if there's anything I can do to make Rita Skeeter shut up."

"That's… ambitious," Harry remarked as Hermione continued fishing books out of her satchel.

"There has to be some way to make that horrid woman stop spilling out those lies. And—here we go." She pulled out a familiar tome and laid it on the table. "Let's go over the Age-Reducing Potion first."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Why?" he said neutrally.

"Because that's Snape's assignment for us, and if you'd had time to look over the instructions to the Invisibility Potion you'd definitely have gotten it, no matter how—no matter what." She flushed slightly. "You're not bad at potions at all, you know."

His next words were steely. "Have you been talking to Dumbledore lately?"

"No," she replied, looking both bewildered and somewhat annoyed.

He studied her for a moment as he searched for any untruth, examining the slight furrow of her brow, the curve of her neck, the many little things he'd forgotten while unable to see, or hadn't seen at all before. She was biting her bottom lip, an expression of puzzlement on her face, and her eyes—

She blushed and looked away. "Stop looking— I mean, that is…" She floundered for words. "Your eyes are really green," she finished lamely.

Harry felt his face burn with embarrassment. He must've been staring at her, he realized, both through the snake's mind and with his sightless eyes. "I…" he said. "It's just that Dumbledore was trying to make Snape and me stop killing each other."

"There's nothing wrong with that!" Hermione exclaimed, and quickly lowered her voice when Madam Pince directed a piercing stare in their direction. "As far as I can see, he's the one who's been trying to kill you, not the other way around."

Harry chuckled hollowly and sat back, folding his arms over his chest. He found himself wishing he hadn't brought up this topic. "It hardly matters, whether or not Snape hates me. I have to kill Voldemort anyway."

"Don't _think_ that way! You're not the one who has to do it or—or die trying, or anything stupid like that."

Harry stopped. He hadn't told anyone about the prophecy yet, he realized. The dangers of telling immediately filed through his head—Hermione might get abducted and her knowledge ripped from her; it might leak; it would put massive amounts of people in danger; but another part, weighted down by months of solitude, churned against the walls of the dam. _And anyway_, he thought, _even if Voldemort finds out, he's still going to try to kill me. It's not as though the power that I have and he doesn't is much of a secret anymore_.

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you here. There're too many people around."

Hermione glanced around furtively. "I wish I knew some convenient eavesdropping spell," she muttered fretfully.

Harry shrugged. "At this stage, it hardly matters if anyone hears." He leaned forward and Hermione did too until he could feel her breath on his face. "At the end of last year, Dumbledore told me that a prophecy had been made about me—basically it boiled down to this: that I have a power the Dark Lord knows not, and that either of us must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."

Hermione stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Wait—_what_? A prophecy? I mean, I read about prophecies, but I… I thought…" She frowned anxiously. "I thought it broke, didn't it?"

"It did," Harry replied, "But Dumbledore heard the—er—original version, when it was just made." He didn't feel like mentioning Trelawney and having to subsequently justify her prophetic abilities. "There was also a bit about being born as the seventh month dies and being marked as the Dark Lord's equal, but that's all there is. And the prophecy applies to _me_, not anyone else; Voldemort made sure of that." He saw her gaze flicker to his forehead, and knew she knew what he meant.

Hermione sat back, her frown dissipating. "That's… terrible, Harry. I don't quite know what to think." Her face took on the expression Harry had seen so many times, the expression of furious thought. "So, according to this prophecy, you _have_ to kill Voldemort, or you'll get killed by no one else but him… That's—!"

"Not much different from what my situation is right now," Harry finished for her. "And it pokes a few holes in the whole free will thing, don't you think?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again. "Whenever you say something like that," she began, speaking hesitantly as though she were considering each word, "I feel like telling you to snap out of it, that you shouldn't be so hopeless or nobly tragic, or anything stupid like that, but then I realize that you're not being that way just to be hopeless or nobly tragic…" She didn't seem to know quite how to continue. "It must… be painful, I imagine."

Harry wished the snake would stop looking at her face and her eyes. It was painful, as she said, and he felt a bit of relief that someone understood, that he wasn't entirely alone; but it was as though he was allowed the sight of welcoming arms but denied their contact. Hermione was right: she could never fully understand it. He didn't blame her, of course, and he hoped she would never have to witness or experience some of the things he did, but… It would be—nice if someone could sit by him with the silent companionship of two that had suffered the same, had fought just as bitterly and carried scars just as deep.

_Someone like Snape_, he thought coldly and squished the thought with vehemence.

"Everyone hurts every so often," Harry said dismissively. "Anyway, Dumbledore wants me to do the DA again because, apparently, it was a smashing success last year."

"Oh," said Hermione, after a moment's pause. "Well, that's certainly…"

"A manifestation of Dumbledore's decaying cognitive abilities?"

"Harry! Don't say that! But in all honesty, I don't think that—er—there will be as much of a turnout as last year."

"Especially since most students think that I am either Voldemort number two or Snape number two." He shrugged. "Or both."

"Yes, that is something of a problem," she replied testily. "But we'll have to try, won't we? I'll contact everyone. When do you want to meet?"

"Will the day after tomorrow be too soon?"

"I don't think so." She sighed. "I wonder if everyone kept their galleons? I know Ginny and Neville will have, but… Anyway"—she opened the Potions book and flipped through it—"the Age-Detection Potion. The tricky part is that there can be so many variations, and Snape is bound to force you to do an obscure one, you just have to remember the different viable ingredients…"

qpqpqp

The next day was more tolerable than the first, and Harry thought, with a slight feeling of wistfulness, that it probably had to do with the fact that he didn't meet Snape even once.

It helped, too, that Hermione stuck by him wherever he went, and that Neville and Ginny orbited him like two hesitant planets, keeping the miasma of whispers at bay. Even better, neither McGonagall nor Flitwick tried to sabotage his work, though Flitwick seemed slightly nervous as he examined Harry's Disillusionment Charm. Harry couldn't tell whether it was because the snake seemed to be particularly enthusiastic about glaring at the Charms teacher when he approached or whether it was the general air of uneasiness.

Even Defense Against the Dark Arts held no unpleasant surprises. Though Harry felt a vague tenseness whenever he was in Cinna's proximity, and the monkey-like smile still bothered him, nothing really happened.

But after they left the classroom, Harry again having waited until the crowd had passed, he noticed Draco making his way down the hall, his head bowed and shoulders slumped, with Crabbe whispering things at every step; and it seemed, with every word, that Draco would stiffen more and more until Harry thought he might break.

Hermione was looking at him inquiringly. "Harry?"

He glanced about quickly: there was nobody else left. "You go on without me," he said. "I've a bit of stuff to do."

Hermione glanced hesitantly at Draco and opened her mouth as though to chide him or demand an explanation, but she decided against it. "I'll see you later then," she said and left reluctantly.

As soon as Hermione was gone, Harry darted down the corridor, moving as swiftly and silently as a bird's shadow over water.

"…want you anymore, Draco," Crabbe muttered in his stupid, guttural voice. "You're no use to Him. He wants me to tell you that since your father is in disgrace."

Harry moved up until he was an arm's length away. "Are you serving as Voldemort's messenger, Crabbe?"

Both Slytherins jumped, though Harry thought—or hoped—that there was a light of pleased surprise in Draco's eyes before they returned to their expressionless grey.

"Potter," Crabbe said, blinking. "My Master had a message to you, too. It was—it was—"

"I'm not interested in hearing it," Harry snapped. He drew himself to his full height (which he realized now was quite impressive), and crossed his arms over his chest. "Perhaps you would like to deliver it to Professor Dumbledore?"

Crabbe goggled for a long moment. "You look like Snape," he blurted out at last.

Harry felt a flash of—something that ended with anger before he jabbed a finger down the corridor and roared, "GO!" For good effect, Harry felt the snake about his neck raise its head and hiss menacingly.

Crabbe started, a look of fear crossing his face, and mutely obeyed.

"Good riddance," Harry muttered. He turned at last to Draco. "So. Draco." He paused, and felt the silence begin to cool and accumulate awkwardness, like a bucket of warm water set in snow. Draco kept his eyes averted and his face hardened.

Harry wondered what he could say. _Remember me_? sounded trite and stupid. _Why aren't you talking to me?_ sounded whiney and plaintive. So he said, "Crabbe really is an idiot, isn't he?"

"What do you know?" Draco muttered fiercely. "You never spent any time with him. You-Know-Who should've chosen _him_ instead of Goyle. Goyle was actually—not as stupid."

"What's happened with Goyle?"

"He's—missing." Draco sneered with effort. "Didn't you notice? Or were you too blinded by your Gryffindor lapdogs?"

"Lapdogs? I think you're a bit behind the times, Draco. Most of the school wishes I were dead—especially the Gryffindors."

Draco sneered again. "What do _you_ know?" he demanded.

"We've got quite a bit more in common than you'd think," Harry said quietly.

Draco deflated. Without the sneer, his face looked several years younger, almost like a little boy's, wavering at the edge of manhood. He seemed frail, and Harry found himself wondering what the Malfoys were like within their glittering citadels of pride and money.

"I should be mad at you," Draco said dully, "for not telling me who you really were. And I _am_ mad at you." He looked up with glittering eyes. "My father pushed _me_ aside to get to _you_."

Harry digested the words and felt sadness well up in him, sadness and pity. But he struck down at the pity: Draco would have liked that least of all. "I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can do about your father." He mustered a grim sort of smile. "If it's any consolation, my father hates me too, and far more than yours hates you. If there were a spell to switch affections… What?"

Draco was giving him a withering look. "You're such an idiot, Potter."

"Uh…"

"Never mind," Draco said dismissively. The moment of weakness from a few seconds ago had flashed away like yet another mask. "I'm leaving now. If I'm to preserve any bit of my reputation, which has fallen considerably ever since the damned Ministry froze our assets, I'd better not be seen next to you, Potter."

"All right," Harry said resignedly as Draco began his way down the corridor. "Wait!"

Draco stopped, his poise having some of the old hauteur. "What is it?"

"There's going to be a meeting tomorrow for a Defense Association club. Will you come?"

Draco made a face. "Are you mad? I'm not about to waltz into a nest of idiot Gryffindors."

"I'll be very surprised if there are more Gryffindors than Slytherins," Harry said dryly. "Anyway, it'll be on the seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. If you walk back and forth and wish hard enough for a room to appear, you'll see a door."

"That sounds rather complicated," Draco said, frowning. "What if nothing appears?"

"It will if you concentrate hard enough," Harry said. "I expect you can do it," he tossed in coolly, as a semi-serious gauntlet, which, judging from Draco's look of disdain, was recognized and rather hesitatingly gripped.

"Right," said Draco. "I might see you later, then."

"All right."

Draco turned around again, but before he left, Harry called out again. "One last thing!"

Draco crossed his arms and looked back expectantly.

"I'm still _gwalchgwyn_," he said and attempted a smile. Draco stared back at him stoically before he returned with a faint, very faint, smile. Then he left, walking unhurriedly down the hall.

"_Such disrespect to the Heir of his house_," the snake muttered resentfully. Harry didn't reply, but watched Draco leave. It was, he thought, the first time he could remember Draco Malfoy walking alone with the unbending Malfoy poise without sneaking about or being shielded by an orbiting crowd.

qpqpqp

"So did you manage to find a lot of the DA members?" Harry asked, before Hermione could ask him about what he had been doing in that corridor while Malfoy was still there.

"Yes," Hermione replied, scribbling away at a parchment of Arithmancy problems. They were in the library, and Harry had been a bit surprised that he'd managed to find her there; he had thought she would be in the Common Room, but he had wanted to delay entering the Gryffindor Tower for as long as possible, and so had gone to the library first instead.

She set down her quill and sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I'll be surprised if anyone at all shows up."

"What about Neville and Ginny?"

"Besides them, though I think…" She hesitated. "Neville's been acting rather oddly, lately, after the first day you were back. Sometimes he jumps up and defends you, especially when Ron spouts something, but other times he just sits there and pretends to be invisible."

"Oh."

"And Ginny—" She stopped. "Anyway. I think it'd be good if we review that Age-Detecting Potion…"

Harry wondered again if Hermione was with Dumbledore in some sort of vendetta to get him and Snape on speaking terms, and the thought filled him with a brief, intense flash of irritation; but he managed to suppress it. _Let them try_, he thought as Hermione scooted closer and flipped open her book. _It won't get them anywhere_.

But thoughts of Hermione and Dumbledore's possible designs vanished with the following morning post.

The moment Harry had seated himself, Hermione thrust a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ in front of him. "Read this," she whispered, her voice an echo of the hush that rippled through the rest of the Hall. The snake turned its head down to the paper before Harry was prepared to, for he felt somehow drawn to the many glances turning towards him, like a puppet being pulled by its strings.

_DEATH-EATER ATTACK ON MINISTRY_, Harry read.

The snake uncoiled itself slightly to peer at the black and white print. "_What does it say_?" it hissed quietly.

"There was an attack on the Ministry of Magic," Harry said, in English. "The Fountain of Magical Brethren, after being rebuilt most splendidly over the summer, was demolished in an extremely gruesome manner and replaced by the Dark Mark. Fortunately there were no casualties. The Ministry urges everyone not to panic, and there are some handy step-by-step instructions on page four in case Death Eaters show up on your doorstep…"

"It's… strange," Hermione said, frowning.

"Strange?" Ginny sputtered. "It's terrible! The article said the attack was in broad daylight and that everyone was too panicked to do anything besides run for their lives."

"Obviously he wants to intimidate the public," Neville said solemnly.

Hermione looked irritable and unconvinced. "It's just…" She continued flipping through the pages and didn't say anything else.

Harry felt Neville shifting closer to him. "Did you… er… have any warning?" he muttered quietly, darting a glance at Harry's scar.

Harry shook his head. Neville settled back, looking almost uncomfortable at having addressed Harry in so public a place.

"In any case," Hermione said briskly, folding her copy of _The Daily Prophet_, "it'll be interesting to see if this brings more people to the DA today—or turns it into a four-person party."

_Or five_, Harry thought privately as they headed down for Potions.

Snape's mood seemed unaffected by the report. In fact, to Harry's surprise, the Potions Master seemed less acerbic in his attacks. Harry had braced himself for an onslaught, numbing himself with every bit of strength he had, feeling the back of his neck bristle with tension every time Snape approached, but nothing happened. Snape assigned him with a sneer one of the trickier variations of the potion; Harry completed it without incident; Snape graded it and looked disappointed that there was nothing wrong.

It was all very much the same as it had been before, before this summer of revelations. _I wonder what Dumbledore said to him_, Harry thought as they trudged to the Great Hall for lunch. But as they seated themselves to eat, he found, to his mild surprise, that large part of him didn't care any longer.

"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Hermione remarked.

"It was rather good," Harry agreed noncommittally.

Hermione reached for some shepherd's pie. "You did really well—Snape couldn't find any fault at all with your potion."

"Mm-hmm," Harry murmured, contenting himself with his mashed potatoes.

"You have… Healing afterward?" Hermione asked casually, pulling out her slightly wrinkled copy of _The Daily Prophet_.

"Yes, I do," Harry replied in the same manner. _Lessons in healing—of all things—with Snape_, Harry thought. _It'll be just like those Occlumency lessons_. _How exciting_.

Harry left alone long after Hermione had to hurry to Arithmancy and only a handful of students were left in the Great Hall. When he entered the hospital wing, the sight of white cots and clean walls seemed just as familiar as the red couches and covers of the Gryffindor Tower; and the smell of cleanliness and various potions tickled him in an almost nostalgic way.

"Hello, Harry," said Pomfrey, bustling up to him. "How are you? You had lunch, didn't you?" She had her wand out and seemed prepared to command him onto the cot and examine him. "Are you here for lessons with Professor Snape?"

"Yes," said Harry.

Pomfrey made a brief and rather disapproving look before peering at him carefully. It was somewhat disconcerting that she was only up to his chin, whereas before they had been more or less eye-level. "Have you had any aches? Any pain in your eyes?"

"I've been fine," Harry said.

Pomfrey stepped back, then settled her gaze on something behind Harry. "Professor Snape," she greeted.

"Madam Pomfrey," Snape replied, sweeping in. "I'll be taking Potter now. I trust you have the puffskeins ready?"

"Yes, I do," she said, the disapproving look deepening.

"Come along, Potter," Snape said, sweeping down past the rows of cots to a bare little room adjacent to Madam Pomfrey's office. There was a long metallic table in the middle of the room, similar to the apparatuses he'd seen on Muggle television. Next to that was a wooden box, looking very out of place in the room, from which purring and rustling noises emanated.

"_Mm_," said the snake, extending its head eagerly. "_Puffskeins_._ Delicious_."

"Behave," Harry muttered, patting the snake sharply on the head. He didn't want the snake to suddenly eat what he was supposed to be patching up.

"Professor Dumbledore apparently thought it necessary for you to learn Healing from me," Snape said in a flat voice, walking swiftly to the other side of the table, so he could pace and glare at the same time. "Healing can be a very difficult branch of magic to acquire because it is extremely intuitive, rather the antithesis to Potions…" Snape paused, and Harry supposed that the pause was for sneering, but he was facing the shiny surface of the table, and the snake was obediently following his gaze.

"As with any sort of magic," Snape continued, though he sounded slightly annoyed, "the basis of it comes from intent. As I will only be teaching you the most rudimentary of techniques, your intent need not be as refined as that of a certified Healer. You may be as blunt as you wish." This last part ended with a note of disdain, as though he thought it no difficulty for Harry to keep his intent as blunt as possible.

Harry made no response and only inclined his head slightly. His face was a mask.

Snape reached into the wooden bin and pulled out a puffskein by its tail. He laid it on the table. "Today I will be teaching you how to simply heal a small open wound. First, you sterilize the injury. Then, you seal it."

_Sterilize and seal_, Harry thought. It didn't sound too complicated. By now the puffskein had wriggled to one end of the table and was peering over the edge at the other puffskeins purring in the wooden bin below.

Without warning, Snape reached down and cut a line down the puffskein's back with the tip of his wand. Instantly the creature shrieked and jerked forward, but Snape's fingers clenched liked a hawk's claws. Blood began to ooze out of the wound.

"First, sterilize," Snape said, moving his wand to one end of the wound. "_Expurgo_." He traced it down the thin red line, and Harry watched as a puffskein shivered in Snape's grip.

"This second part is more difficult," Snape went on in his calm, cool voice. "You must convince the magic innate in the living substance to seal itself together. You may, if the magic is unwilling, transmit your own magic as persuasion." Harry watched the blood seep into the fur. "Sometimes, particularly if a curse has been applied, the hostile magic will have to be dispelled." _Seal the thing already_, Harry thought crossly.

"_Medicor_," Snape said, pronouncing the syllables with staccato precision and drawing his wand over the wound. Within moments, the cut had sealed.

"Simple," said Snape disdainfully, dropping the puffskein back onto the metallic surface. It scurried to the edge and cooed mournfully at the wooden box. "Your turn, Potter."

Harry swallowed. He felt rather sick. "Professor," he said, "how do I make the cut…?"

Snape reached down with his wand and with the same surgical precision, traced a line across the puffskein's back. It opened instantly, and the puffskein squealed, lurching off the table—

Harry's hand shot out and grabbed it, pulling it back onto the table. He took his hand away and realized then that there was blood smeared over his palm, leaving a rusty trail on the table like the guts of a fish. He turned his face from the sight of his palm, but the snake continued to stare at it.

"_Snake!_" he snapped.

The snake turned its attention immediately to the shivering puffskein. _What was it that Snape had said_? Harry wondered, and for a moment, found his mind completely empty under his father's gaze. Then, the word bubbled to his lips: "_Expurgo_," he said, and drew his wand shakily over the wound. He was aware, painfully aware, of Snape watching his every move.

"_Medicor_," Harry said, repeating it exactly as he had remembered Snape say it. He traced the wound again, and watched the cut close itself along the path of his wand.

He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped back. There was still blood on the table, and his palm was still bloody, but the puffskein was moving again, leaving more reddish smears as it crawled once more to the edge.

"So you managed, on your first try," Snape said, sounding a bit uncertain about something. _He's hardly ever uncertain about anything_, Harry thought, and couldn't help feeling both curious and apprehensive.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, Snape strode over to a wreath hanging inconspicuously above the doorway. He tapped it with his wand and muttered, "_Dormio_."

Harry frowned. "Sir, what's that…?"

Snape stalked back. "A Dark Arts detector," he answered brusquely, then thrust his wand at the puffskein. "_Abscindo venas_."

The puffskein flipped onto its back and shrieked. It thrashed its limbs, skittering to the other side of the table and nearly falling off again.

"What did you do?" Harry shouted.

"I broke its veins," Snape replied, still using his damnably cool voice. "Heal it before it dies."

_Heal it before it dies—heal it before it dies_— Harry wanted to scream at Snape, but he didn't: he reached out a hand and snatched up the puffskein. _Sterilize and seal, sterilize and seal—but there's nothing to sterilize, and nothing I can see to seal!_

"_He used a Dark curse to cut its veins_," the snake hissed.

"_Wonderful_," Harry hissed savagely, trying to keep the puffskein from jerking out of his grasp. "_So how do I keep it from dying_?"

"_Just heal it_."

"_Just_—oh, never mind." Harry pointed his wand at roughly the spot Snape had. "_Expurgo_!" he snapped. "_Medicor_!" He felt something resist at the tip of his wand, as though he were pushing into the skin of a balloon. _The curse_, Harry thought, and with gritted teeth pushed in at the balloon with a rapid thrust.

He felt the balloon pop. The puffskein grew limp, even as Harry felt the ragged ends of the curse drip away.

"It's dead," Harry said helplessly, still holding the puffskein in his hand.

"Of course it's dead," Snape said. He walked back to the wreath hanging above the door and tapped it with his wand. "Yet another thing," he commented coolly, "that Potter has not managed to rescue."

Harry did nothing. He stood there still, holding the still-warm carcass, waiting for the next wave of comments, the next flood of acid comments that would burn him until he had no feeling left.

But nothing came. _Snape is hesitating_, Harry realized, the thought coming to him calmly, though his heart was still treacherously fast.

"Though you failed in this, you do seem to have a bit of… aptitude," Snape said, only barely managing the last word. "Could you feel something when using _Medicor_? A kind of resistance?"

Harry nodded. "Yes."

"There is a—talent in that," Snape said, sounding distinctly awkward. But there was no sneer, no note of contemptuous disdain.

There was a pause before Snape added, at Harry's irresponsiveness, "Though I may be mistaken, it might be a manifestation of your lineage."

_My lineage_, thought Harry with a sudden coldness. _Not yours. Not ours_. He let a feeling of scorn creep through him, riding on the power of this detached hate and fury. _Are you too afraid to acknowledge me as your blood, your son_? _Too cowardly_?

"Potter!" Snape snapped, "Are you paying attention?" And Harry knew that he had let the expression play across his face. It was something he would never have done a month ago, a week ago, or even a year ago. He realized that something had changed, changed utterly; but he felt removed from the world, at once freed by this new emotion and cut off from where his heart had been.

_What does it matter_? he reminded himself and looked down obsequiously. _Your fate is the same. What does it matter_?

The rest of the lesson passed without incident. Snape pushed him brutally, and a few more puffskeins died as the cuts became deeper, more jagged, more soaked with hostile magic. By the end of it all, the surface was swimming with blood and both Harry and Snape's hands were coated with the thick red substance.

"Clean your hands before you leave," Snape instructed, tapping his own fingers with his wand and muttering a spell under his breath.

Harry did as he was told, and left without another word.

He met no one on the way up to the Room of Requirement, for Snape had let him off later than classes usually ended; and when he entered, he found it much the same as it had been last year, with the silk cushions and rows of bookshelves. The only difference was that there were only three other people in the room: Hermione, who was poring over the morning's edition of _The Daily Prophet_, Neville, who seemed a bit jumpy when Harry entered, and Luna Lovegood, who was humming idly and staring at the ceiling.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "There you are." Her face fell a bit. "Are you all right? You look a bit…"

"Grim," Luna said dreamily. "My father is researching the Half-Dead Walkers of Hungary, and you looked just like that one picture an explorer took."

Hermione gave Luna a look of exasperation, and Neville glanced at Harry briefly before looking away again, as though caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do.

"I'm fine," Harry said, after realizing that the others seemed to be waiting for him to respond. "Just that there was a lot of blood involved. Snape had me cut up puffskeins."

"_Puffskeins_?" Neville gaped, for a moment shocked out of his reservations. "But—oh, leave it to Snape to choose _puffskeins_ to cut up."

"I had a pet puffskein," Luna commented. "But I lost it my first year here."

"That's understandable then," Neville said to Harry, for a moment fully sympathetic.

_Ron had one as a pet too_, Harry remembered, and shut the thought away. He looked at Hermione, and briefly she seemed unconvinced and slightly skeptical. But the expression passed quickly, like the shutting of a door, and she pushed herself out of the silk cushion she had been sitting in.

"Anyway, as you can see, the turnout was a bit less than what we'd hoped," Hermione said. "Lavender said she was getting involved with Parvati in some sort of Divination assignment, very important, of course—"

"Hannah Abbott wants me to tell you that Ernie and she are particularly busy doing an assignment for Sprout," Luna supplied.

"And I tried finding Susan Bones, but I didn't have any classes with her, so unless she kept her galleon, she wouldn't know—"

"Cho Chang said she was busy," Luna added, "but she also said that she might come later, depending on how things turned out—"

"And Zacharias Smith told me very rudely he wasn't planning to come at all!" Hermione ended in a snappish tone.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked.

"She dragged Michael Corner here, though he was rather upset about it, seeing that she's going out with Dean anyway," said Hermione. "But then she had something to do with Quidditch, and just a few minutes ago she left."

There was a silence after Hermione stopped talking. All eyes turned on him, Harry, even Luna, who stopped observing the ceiling. _They expect me to lead them_, thought Harry. _They still think I'm their leader_. But at that moment all he could think of was Quidditch. _I'm never going to play Quidditch again_, he thought calmly.

"It's up to you what you want me to do," he said at length. "I hadn't prepared anything to teach you, and by now you may know more than I do—Cinna's a pretty decent teacher."

"Well at least…" Hermione began, but stopped, for once short on words. The silence felt awkward and incomplete, but Harry preferred it. He could still hear his thoughts from the barren little room in the hospital: _My lineage. Not yours. Not ours_.

"I… I need to go the library, for McGonagall's Animagus study assignment," Neville muttered. He darted a glance at Hermione. "It's due tomorrow, isn't it?"

Hermione pressed her lips very tightly together. "Yes, it is," she said coolly.

Neville stood up hesitantly, picking up his book-bag as he did so. Hermione radiated silent disapproval as Neville walked past, but Harry said nothing and did nothing, merely let Neville pass out of the field of his vision.

"Good bye, Neville," Luna called.

"Good bye," Neville replied morosely and left the room.

"Fair-weather friend," Hermione snorted the moment the door shut. "And Harry, don't feel too bad about it. They'll come around soon enough."

"Yes, probably," Harry said in a false, agreeable tone.

Hermione looked at him sharply, opened her mouth, but shut it a moment later. They were silent again. Harry moved and seated himself in a chair; Luna returned to looking up at the ceiling; Hermione, still seated on the floor, was looking agitatedly from Harry to Luna and back again.

"We have to do _something_!" she said at last and began rocking back and forth where she sat. Harry remained still, but the snake around his neck followed Hermione's movement. "Ginny's right. When the Fountain of Magical Brethren was attacked, everyone just _ran_. We have to be prepared! We outnumber the Death Eaters by an enormous margin—if every single one of us remained and fought, Voldemort would never win."

"The day all wizards stand together would be the day they forget to be human," Harry said dully.

Hermione pierced him with a look brimming with anger and disbelief. "Harry—what happened today during your lesson with Snape?"

Harry's face transformed instantly into a frown. _Snape_. It was though someone had taken an ice pick and shattered the shield around him. "Nothing," he said. Then he managed to smooth over the feelings that were threatening to erupt. "He was quite conciliatory actually. About as nice as he was today in Potions."

"Harry…"

_Don't ask_, Harry thought, his heart a thing of steel. _Don't ask_. The air hummed. Harry was still seated, but Hermione was standing, and she wasn't looking at his sightless face; instead, she was staring directly at the snake's eyes, as though trying to find the soul absent from his own eyes.

"What did he do? After you have class with him you seem so changed—"

"The review session we had on the Age-Detection Potion was very helpful," Harry interrupted coldly, but Hermione continued.

"I _know_ I won't truly understand, but you're the last friend I have, so tell me, please, does Snape still—"

"He _never_ said anything cruel to me at all, and the puffskeins may just be his brand of humor—"

"Is he still—_hurting_ y—"

"_He never_—!"

The door opened.

It took Harry a second or two to recognize the arrogant smirk that disguised the uncertain tread and the hesitant entry.

"Draco!" Harry said, leaping to his feet. His voice, even to his own ears, sounded pleasantly surprised.

A brief look of relief cracked the mask. "Potter," Draco drawled. "Or," he added, "do you prefer _gwalchgwyn_?"

Harry didn't hesitate to let the smile show on his face. "_Gwalchgwyn_. I'm not really Potter, you know."

Draco seemed satisfied by this response. His gaze traveled past Harry, and then his face darkened. "If it isn't—" He stopped himself in time. "Granger," he sneered.

Harry turned. Hermione looked ashen, and her eyes darted almost uncomprehendingly between Harry and Draco.

"Hermione," Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

"_Draco_?" she said in disbelief, her gaze fixed on Harry. "And—_gwalchgwyn_? What is this now?"

"Let me explain—"

"Let me _out_," Hermione snapped and walked swiftly towards the door. Harry reached out and managed to grab her wrist, but she twisted and pushed him roughly, her hand swiping across his chest—and he fell, jolted by the shock of physical contact and the sudden memory of another pair of hands.

The impact with the ground was painful (he had the bad luck not to land on one of the silk cushions), but as his senses struggled through the haze of fear and memory, he was aware of Draco's sneering voice.

"Don't _touch_ him, you degenerate mudblood—!"

"I'm—I'm sorry!" Hermione sounded precariously close to sobs. "I—I forgot, and…"

"_Forgot_, did you? Was it so easy to forget the nightmares he went through?"

"_Arglwydd_?" the snake hissed in concern.

The world righted itself, and Harry pushed himself into a sitting position. "I'm fine," he said automatically.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, but Draco kept his wand pointed at her face. "Let—me—pass—!" She whipped out her own wand just as the Slytherin began his spell—

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Harry watched the two wands arc through the air and into Luna's hand. "You're not really helping him, you know," she said matter-of-factly. "He's still on the ground."

Hermione gave Draco a loathsome glare through her tears before hurrying next to Harry. Malfoy, not to be outdone, did the same at Harry's other side.

"Harry, are you—do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked, sounding guilt-stricken. "I'm so sorry, I just—"

"And you call yourself his friend," Draco interrupted snidely.

"Draco," Harry chided reprovingly, but Hermione dropped Harry's arm and took a step back.

"He's—he's right," Hermione mumbled, turning her head away so they would not see her cry. "I'll let you alone, then…"

"Don't!" Harry reached out a hand again before stopping the movement halfway. He frowned in Draco's direction, though he couldn't be sure if Draco actually saw it. "Hermione—stay, please."

Hermione didn't move. Her face was still turned away, and Harry wished he could tell her that he didn't hold it against her that she touched him, that he understood that habits made over five years were difficult to break, just as assumptions and basic truths forged for half a decade took longer than a single day to crumble.

And the fact that she kept asking about Snape merely meant that she cared.

_Damn my conscience_, he thought, keenly aware that Draco was watching his every move. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. "You're right. I was behaving rather badly."

Hermione shook her head furiously. "No—no. I should try to understand—"

"_I_ was in the wrong," Harry interrupted. "You've always done what you believed was right, and you've stuck with me even through the most ridiculous situations—"

"Don't be stupid, Harry, I shouldn't have pushed you or just stormed off when Malfoy—or, uh, Draco came in—"

"_Hermione!_ Stop taking the blame—I still haven't said sorry for being rude to you the other day—"

"Will you—!"

Draco coughed disdainfully and wrinkled his nose. "How _touching_ this—er—argument is," he muttered.

There was a moment of complete silence before Luna said, with complete sincerity, "Yes. It is."

Hermione and Harry glanced each other, their gaze meeting briefly; and then they broke down into uncontrollable laughter.

"Gryffindor humor," Draco sniffed, after looking down at them past his nose for a moment or two. "Anyway, _gwalchgwyn_, you said that there was to be some sort of meeting here…?"

Harry sobered. "There was. But hardly anyone showed up. Perfectly understandable, you know, as I'm obviously the Dark and Terrible Prince of Doom, also known as Voldemort's apprentice."

"Yes, and even the dimmest nitwit knows that such a Dark and Terrible and Princely person _had_ to have had a hand in destroying the single most hypocritical thing I've ever seen in the wizarding world," Hermione added, though her voice switched from blithe to scathing somewhere in the middle.

"You mean the Fountain of Magical Brethren?" said Draco. "I must say, that house-elf was pretty accurate."

Harry groaned instantly. "Draco! Did you _have_ to mention house-elves?"

To his surprise, though, Hermione began laughing. "Honestly, is SPEW so terrifying?"

Harry grinned in relief. "Yes, it was. So…" He paused. "Have you given up on it?"

"No," she replied immediately, all laughter gone. "I'll have you know, Harry—Potter, Snape, whoever you are, that house-elves don't deserve to be brutally enslaved. Dobby, for example—"

"_Dobby_?" Draco exclaimed. "The one that keyed Father all up?"

"Yes, _that_ one. And—"

It was, Harry decided, markedly better than curses and blows and tears. It was also quite mind-boggling that both Hermione and Draco were citing instances of house-elf history: who on earth knew (or cared to know) that in 1372, Cora the Compassionate had attempted to push through the Wizengamot a law promoting house-elf welfare?

He shook his head in amusement, settled on a silk cushion, and picked up Hermione's abandoned copy of _The Daily Prophet_, feeling the snake extend its head curiously to look at the moving photographs.


	18. Paradise Lost

_A/N: Here be tributes to three inspirational people (or four: the third is a pair) – kudos to whoever can find them!_

_A/N2: Once again, many thanks to Procyon, not only for the excellent beta, but also for bearing with me while I squished this chapter out of my brain and onto the screen._

* * *

**Chapter 18: Paradise Lost**

The problems presented by suddenly not hating Draco Malfoy were circumvented by the fact that the animosity most Gryffindors held for the Slytherins, Draco in particular, seemed to have found another target.

"That's fine with me," Hermione said stiffly, a week after the aborted DA meeting. "They'll just have to find someone else to lend them notes come exams." She heaved her Transfiguration book onto the library table with a heavy thud as if to emphasize her point.

Harry smiled slightly, though he said nothing. _Thank you_, which was what he felt, didn't feel right, and he couldn't muster enough emotion to deliver a scathing comment about lazy Gryffindors.

"Harry?" Hermione began hesitantly, and Harry knew, with a sinking heart that crumbled what warmth he had felt moments earlier, what was coming next. "How was Healing?"

"It was fine," Harry said flatly, using the same voice he'd used every Tuesday and Thursday and every time Hermione asked him that question. But this time he added: "I wish you wouldn't ask me."

"Well…" said Hermione, and Harry turned his head away: a useless gesture, for the snake continued to meet her eyes. "Why not?"

Harry shifted, crossing his arms over his chest, noting that the library's chairs were nearly as uncomfortable as those in Snape's dungeons. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But you should. After every lesson with Snape, you seem a bit… depressed."

"I only get depressed when you pepper me with questions."

He wondered momentarily if he'd gone too far again, but Hermione continued, unruffled, "You shouldn't hold it in, Harry. Once you talk about it, the load gets lighter, trust me. And if Snape is really being inappropriate to you, you must tell Dumbledore."

"Snape is being perfectly civil," Harry replied coldly, almost wishing that Hermione had stormed away in a huff, "and I don't know why you expect me to be sickeningly cheerful all the time."

"I'm not expecting you to be cheerful, I'm expecting you not to be depressed, so what exactly—"

"STOP asking me these questions!" He forced his voice down to a furious hiss when Hermione fell silent. They were in the library, after all. "You're not my caretaker. I don't _want_ you to be my caretaker."

"I don't either," said Hermione in a small voice.

The madness of anger faded somewhat, and he could see clearly again. It seemed now that sight was a secondary sense, one that melted whenever he felt upset. He thought vaguely that he shouldn't have yelled at Hermione, but the guilt was too deadened to evoke an apology. "Anyway," he said, "tonight will be interesting. Dumbledore's invited me to an Order meeting after dinner."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Am I allowed to ask you questions?"

"Yes, but I might be allowed to answer them," Harry answered grimly. Last year, he would have been charged with nervous anticipation, but all he felt now was a vague, unremitting dread. It didn't help that this would be his first time meeting the rest of the Weasleys and Tonks and Mad-Eye and all the others as Harry… well, not quite Harry Snape, but not quite Harry Potter, either.

Harry ate little of the steak and kidney pie that evening, and was glad that Hermione didn't try to force him to eat more. In no time at all, he was in front of the ugly gargoyle, and the snake delighted in its haughtiness once again as it demanded entrance. But as Harry waited quietly for the spiraling stairs to bear him to the top, he felt layers of magic wash over his skin. _I'm glad Dumbledore isn't relying solely on his statue to guard the entrance_, he thought as he stepped off and faced the two slabs of oak before him.

The doors swung open at his touch, and all eyes turned to him.

"Welcome, Harry," Dumbledore said from where he sat. The headmaster smiled, and at his right Professor McGonagall nodded, but Harry found no comfort in either gesture.

There was a ring of chairs facing the center, and Harry noticed an empty seat to Dumbledore's left—right next to where Snape was sitting like a forbidding crag.

"Harry!" Remus Lupin exclaimed, leaning forward from his chair near the entrance of the office. "How are you? Everything fine?"

"Hello, Remus," Harry said, trying to summon a smile. "Everything's going quite well." He must've succeeded to some extent, because the werewolf returned the smile, looking particularly relieved.

"Your seat's over there," said Tonks, flicking her wand in Snape's direction. "I mean, about five steps ahead, slightly to the right—"

"He is capable of sight through his familiar," Snape sneered, "Nymphadora."

Tonks wrinkled her nose at Snape as Harry walked across the open space and seated himself carefully—at a neutral distance from his father, something he wondered if the Order members observed. As he glanced at Tonks, he stared at the unfamiliar face that suddenly appeared: a hooked nose that strongly resembled Snape's, dark eyebrows, a grim jaw—

It was his face, Harry realized.

"Tonks!" Snape barked.

Tonks smiled cheekily, and then the nose engorged, the brows drew closer together, wrinkles appeared, and from Snape's frowning face she called out, "Harry, d'you mind?"

Harry decided it was one of the most disturbing things he'd ever seen. "Er—not really."

From the other side of the room, Mrs. Weasley made an irritable sound. "Tonks!" she chided. "Do be sensible!" She seems nervous, Harry thought, and she kept glancing at him rather apologetically. "Are you all right, Harry dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a kindly tone, though she sounded somewhat hesitant. "Are you eating enough?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," Harry replied politely, though the scrutiny made him feel uncomfortable.

"Don't coddle him, Molly," Snape said drlyly.

_Maybe she's feeling guilty about Ron_, Harry thought. Mrs. Weasley gave Snape a brief smile and remarked, "I expect I won't need to worry about that from you, Severus."

Before Snape could respond, Dumbledore cleared his throat, and all the conversations in the room hushed.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said. Fawkes flew from its perch and landed on the headmaster's desk. Dumbledore reached out a gnarled hand and stroked the fiery plumage. "Tonight, my fellow wizards and witches, we have a few matters to discuss. As we all know, the Minister gave us the choice of having Harry stand trial or letting him make up his own version of events in order to control the public's perception."

"And the lad chose to stand trial?" Mad-Eye Moody muttered gruffly. His good eye was directed at Dumbledore, but his magical one was focused on Harry.

"Yes, he did," Dumbledore said, nodding. "It was the lesser of two evils. Once again, Harry will need an entourage."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Tonks remarked, "unless You-Know-Who decides to attack in the middle of the trial."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he does," Mad-Eye Moody muttered. "Those Aurors nowadays… Can't tell the difference between a Death Eater and a hen, and the lot of them would run at the sight of a house-elf…"

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked somewhat embarrassed, and Tonks seemed torn between chagrin and an urge to nod her head in agreement.

A dark-haired witch, whom Harry remembered as having helped him escape the Weasleys two years ago, leaned forward with a smile and said, "Perhaps you'll give the new recruits a seminar, Alastor?"

Moody snorted, though he looked secretly pleased.

"Indeed, the likelihood of Voldemort attacking during the trial is worrisomely high," said Dumbledore. "Our spy has been exposed"—at this, Snape stiffened, but only a few glances turned towards him, none with any hint of accusation—"and Harry no longer suffers the problem of having Voldemort invade his mind."

"Thank Merlin," Mrs. Weasley muttered, and Remus's countenance seemed to lighten.

"But with our two most direct lines of information cut, we will need to be particularly alert. It is due to the efforts of one of our newest members, my old friend Caius Cinna, that we became aware of what seems to be the underlying motive behind the destruction of the Fountain of Magical—"

Suddenly the door opened. Harry didn't turn his head with the others—perhaps he was too used to blindness, or perhaps he heard the turning of the knob and knew from the lightness of steps who it was—but he caught the look of blank surprise and discomfiture on the headmaster's face, and that more than anything else sent a jolt of unease through his body.

"Caius," Dumbledore said slowly, standing up. "Why are you here?"

Harry turned his head, the snake turning its head with him. Caius Cinna was holding in one hand a black bag that was soaked at the bottom.

"You sent me to investigate the area in and around Corfe Castle, which I did," Cinna said in his unhurried, high-pitched voice. "There was nothing left to find there. I made sure of that. And I thought you would like my report."

Dumbledore frowned. "What do you mean?"

Cinna moved forward, and as the man approached, Harry felt Snape stiffen beside him—but there was suddenly a scent in the air, the smell of something sharp and metallic.

"_Blood_," the snake hissed as Cinna set the bundle on Dumbledore's desk with a muffled thud. Using his pinky, he pulled open the bundle, and the cloth fell away to reveal a human head.

Harry heard quite a few gasps and other noises of disgust or shock, but he was too struck by the strange familiarity of features to notice. He peered closer, feeling vaguely nauseated at the lifeless eyes and bloodless skin. _It's Peter Pettigrew's head_, Harry realized suddenly, and he sat back into his chair, not knowing what to think or feel.

"Please explain this, Cinna," Dumbledore said, his voice cold and carrying a swift undercurrent of anger.

"As per your instructions, I examined the area around Corfe Castle for signs of Voldemort's activity. There was little to find, until I noticed a most interesting rat—one with a silver hand. It turned out to be an Animagus of a most suspicious nature. As per your instructions, I neither tortured him nor killed him; merely, I probed his mind for what information he might have." Cinna smiled blandly. "It was a most fruitful search, Albus. But, seeing how this fellow had the potential to be quite troublesome, I decided to take him back here. Most unfortunately, when I released him from my hold, he teetered and fell off a parapet that was… quite high." Cinna shrugged, as though such deadly plummets were everyday occurrences. "Then, you know, I didn't quite feel like carrying back a dead body with me. I would have taken his interesting silver hand, but it melted away, so I was left with his head. He's got quite a lot of blood in him."

_Quite a lot of blood indeed_, thought Harry. The head was very distracting: its bulging eyes were fixed on a corner of the room, and the smears of blood through the tangled hair and across the chin and face seemed to make the head misshapen.

"Thank you, Caius," Dumbledore said softly. "Would you mind telling us what you learned?"

Cinna shrugged smoothly. "It was nothing we hadn't guessed. We were correct in surmising that the attack on the Fountain of Magical Brethren was merely a red herring to cover the kidnappings at the orphanage."

_Red herring_? thought Harry, and he remembered with dawning realization Hermione's discontent a few days ago over _The Daily Prophet_'s report. _She was right_, he thought, feeling something other than the overwhelming nausea that might have been a surge of pride. _It wasn't just an act to terrify the wizarding world—it was a ploy to cover something up, and Hermione saw through it_.

"Did you manage to find out the purpose behind the kidnappings?"

"Apparently Voldemort kept it all very hush-hush, so I imagine only he himself knows for sure, though the rat-man thought it had to do with a very bloody ritual to amplify his master's power. Eleven magical orphans…" Cinna smiled. "What else would Voldemort have wanted them for?"

Dumbledore nodded once—tightly, in an action reminiscent of McGonagall, who sat looking more like a statue than a person. "Thank you, Cinna. You may leave. But come back later tonight. I think you and I need another talk."

Cinna's smile faded, and for a moment, the pale bloodless face seemed filled with a terrible but powerless hatred; but when Harry looked closer in surprise, the other man's countenance was once again teetering at the edge of a vague smile.

"Shall you want the head?" asked Cinna.

Dumbledore hesitated slightly. "No, take it, but don't worsen its condition."

"As you wish," Cinna murmured, tying the folds of black cloth back over the severed head with great precision, almost delicately. "Fare you well, Headmaster," he said, bowing courteously and leaving the room.

"That man, Albus—" said Mrs. Weasley in a strangled voice. "Where did you find that man, Albus?" She looked at the place where Pettigrew's head had been, the spot still stained with blood, and shuddered.

"He is a very old acquaintance," Dumbledore said. He took out his wand and pointed it at the stain on his table and muttered something But the tarnish remained. "Indeed, he is far older than I," the headmaster murmured, slowly putting his wand back into the folds of his robes. He frowned. "He goes too far, sometimes, and for that I apologize."

There was something in his movement, perhaps a slight flicker of gaze, or the merest twitch of hand or face, but Harry knew it was directed at Snape; and he knew, even as the snake turned its head at Harry's neck, that he would see his father sitting as tense as a cornered rat, his face even paler than Pettigrew's, his slender fingers clutching at the chair like claws.

Mad-Eye Moody struck the ground with his wooden leg. "I agree he's a rather odious character," he growled, "but he's got us information." He glared around the circlewith his real eye, though his magical eye was focused on the doors through which Cinna had just left.

"There is no doubt, now," said Dumbledore, turning so that his gaze could meet everyone else's, "that Voldemort is planning a ritual to increase his powers, most likely through the sacrifice of those eleven orphans. And we must not allow that to happen."

"Albus," said the dark-haired witch who had spoken earlier, "do we know exactly when, and what kind of—ritual You-Know-Who intends…?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "We know very little, and as for the kind of ritual…" He paused, then shook his head. "Voldemort knows more about the Dark Arts than anyone else alive—far more than I, certainly. It would be impossible to pinpoint the ritual he is planning based upon the little information that we have."

Mad-Eye Moody shot a look at Kingsley Shacklebolt. "How much can we rely on the Ministry?" he asked.

"Very little," Shacklebolt answered just as Tonks snorted and muttered, "Enough to bend a puffskein's tail."

"We must be extremely discreet," Dumbledore said gravely. "Fudge, though now forced to admit Voldemort's presence, is still quite terrified of our existence. I had hoped that the gravity of the situation would make him see sense, but all he sees is that we are a threat to his power."

Tonks muttered something extremely uncomplimentary under her breath, and Mrs. Weasley shot her a disapproving look, though there seemed to be no real sentiment behind it.

Dumbledore continued, "Considering the oncoming battle of Harry's credibility, our relations to the Ministry are very precarious. There must be no hint of what we are planning. Fudge will publicize our knowledge if he discovers it, and try to grasp what advantage that he might from it.

A few in the room shifted uncomfortably in the ensuing silence.

Then Dumbledore clasped his hands and once again smiled, his eyes twinkling reassuringly. But the lines about his mouth were grim. "Certainly not all is lost. We must keep our eyes and ears open, my fellow wizards and witches. The meeting is adjourned."

There were a few sighs around the room, and Harry supposed it wasn't at every meeting that a stranger, purportedly older than their venerable leader, stalked in with the severed head of an infamous traitor. He aimed his gaze at the bloody spot again while the others rose about him and muttered quiet conversations. All he could feel was a deadening nausea. He wondered if he should have felt something more—perhaps hatred, perhaps satisfaction, perhaps dark vindication; and he wondered what the others felt: Remus, who was more than ever alone; McGonagall, who had seen Pettigrew bumbling in her classroom as a tender child and then a nebulous youth; Snape, who had witnessed the dead man groveling and pleading, a whimpering creature in the dirt: at the heart of the matter, did he still deserve pity?

"Harry," said Remus, looking concerned. Hovering slightly behind him was Mrs. Weasley, and Harry had the brief bizarre notion that he was some kind of prophet that all the miserable came to for relief.

"Remus?" Harry responded. He stood. "Are you all right with… everything?"

Remus made a nervous half-laugh. "Imagine you asking me that—and I'm supposed to be the adult." He looked around. "It's still something of a shock I must say… you?"

"Same here," Harry said. "I don't know quite what to feel."

"No, one never does. I'm glad nobody gave you any trouble—" He stopped, and, almost as though against his will, glanced at Snape.

Harry felt his father stiffen at his side, saw it reflected on the slight tenseness that emerged in Remus's expression, and Harry let one corner of his lips curl into a humorless smile. But before he could say anything, Mrs. Weasley burst out, "Of course none of us did! We're all quite sensible." She paused. "Ginny told me about how Ron was behaving. And we heard it, too, Arthur and I, from the letters he sent us."

She was searching his face, looking for something—hurt? condemnation? Harry swallowed hard and nodded, not knowing what to say. Suddenly he wished fiercely that Snape wasn't here to find out yet another aspect of poor Harry Potter's misery. _But he probably knows already_, Harry thought unhappily. _There's no place to hide_.

"We want you to know that… we don't condone Ron's actions at all," Mrs. Weasley continued. Her eyes seemed to glisten. "But it isn't—him." She took a deep breath. "He was fine for the first few days after he returned from school, at the beginning of the holidays, but then he began to have nightmares about the night in the Department of Mysteries. And, after that, he began to change."

Understanding seeped in, bringing with it the leaden weight of realization. He remembered the brain and the welt-like scars it had left on Ron's arms, remembered Ron's blubbering as curses flew through the air… _I took him there_, Harry thought with a cold screaming in his head. _He followed me_. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley," he said.

"Oh, don't be"—she wiped her eyes quickly—"we took him to St. Mungo's, and they can't find much wrong with him, but over the holidays, we'll go other places, there's bound to be someone who knows… There's the Oracle at Delphi, and the Fountain of Nostradamus, and Albus said he might try some Legilimency, if nothing else works—" She stopped and gave him a watery smile.

Harry returned the smile with effort. "He'll come around," he said, trying to sound optimistic and painfully aware that he was failing miserably.

"Weasley will not 'come around' so easily, as you say, Potter," said Snape suddenly. "Professor Dumbledore told me Weasley's diagnosis. Thought scars can run very deep."

There was a strange solemn note in Snape's voice, almost a note of grave consolation. Who does he think he's consoling? Harry wondered, inexplicably angry. Mrs. Weasley? Me? But then Dumbledore ambled over, and Harry forced a more amiable expression onto his face.

"Ah, my favorite people," Dumbledore beamed.

"You say that to everyone," Mrs. Weasley laughed, though her eyes were still a little red. She turned and glanced at the clock above the doorway. "It's getting late—I really must go back now." She looked at Harry and opened her arms hesitantly.

Harry stepped forward and steeled himself as Mrs. Weasley engulfed him in a hug. The world whirled slightly as the snake twisted itself to avoid making contact, and then it righted itself to Mrs. Weasley's rather teary face. "Take care, Harry," she said. She glanced at Snape and said, "Severus," before giving a hug to Remus with many admonitions to his unhealthily skinny frame.

"If you don't mind, Severus, Remus," said Dumbledore, "I'd like to have a few words in private with Harry."

_Good of him to ask them and not me_, Harry thought dryly as the werewolf and the Potions Master left obediently, though Snape a bit more huffily than Remus.

They were alone now in the empty room. Dumbledore waved his wand and all the chairs except for the one Harry was sitting in disappeared with a soft pop. It was very late, Harry realized, looking at the inky darkness outside the veined window behind Dumbledore's desk.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, and he sounded more than slightly weary. "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry replied. He hesitated before saying, "You seem rather tired, sir."

"I'm old," Dumbledore said, smiling as he seated himself. "And tired, yes. How have things been?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he said again. He felt caught between conflicting desires of honesty and falsity, of compassion and coldness, of fear and sanctuary.

"I trust that your scar has remained dormant?" Dumbledore asked, peering at Harry gravely from over his half-moon spectacles.

Harry nodded. "I've felt nothing," he answered quietly, feeling somewhat better at not having to fake his honesty.

Dumbledore smiled slightly, and relaxed. "Good, good, one less thing on our minds…" He leaned back, and Harry wondered who 'our' was. "You won't be needing to take Occlumency lessons with your father, then."

_My father_, thought Harry. _Why not 'Professor Snape_?' "No, I won't," Harry agreed.

"Has he been treating you well?"

"Very well," Harry replied automatically. He kept his gaze fixed on the violently purple sleeve of the headmaster's robe.

"Have patience, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. "Your father has been… terribly hurt, and sometimes it is so much easier to hate than to risk the hurt from love. Have patience. Your father loves you."

"Yes," Harry whispered, feeling weighted down and chained by a terrible irony he could not yet fully understand.

Dumbledore's hands unclasped and Harry heard the old man sigh. "Is there anything you want to ask me, Harry? It's a rather unfair situation for me to be the only one to ask the questions…"

Harry thought, sluggishly, for his mind was still barely thawing, whether from the lock of dread or from the heavy mantle of sleepiness he couldn't tell. "What can I tell… my friends?" Even now it was rather strange to think of Draco Malfoy as his friend. He added, "I am friends with—different people."

"Such as Draco Malfoy?"

Harry nodded, giving up before he began to wonder how Dumbledore knew.

"I will let you exercise your discretion, Harry," said Dumbledore. "The secrets of others are not ours to tell. But you know that already, don't you?" Harry thought that Dumbledore might be offering a wan smile, but his gaze was fixed on the old headmaster's weathered hands.

Dumbledore sighed. "It's late, Harry, and you have classes tomorrow."

Harry stood. He tried to turn his gaze to meet Dumbledore's eyes, but he couldn't quite; he settled instead on the black night of window above the headmaster's head.

"If you ever want to speak to me, my door will be open," Dumbledore said.

Harry nodded. It was their usual parting, and for a moment it seemed absurdly desperate for the other man to continuously issue that assurance. But Harry turned after another moment and left.

He felt tired, the same weariness he felt after every lesson in Healing with his father. Snape. He picked up his pace.

"_What is on your mind, arglwydd_?" the snake hissed quietly.

"_Nothing_." There was no sound save the soft breath of their movement. The torches burned silently, casting their glow on the polished breastplates of the shields of armor; and Harry found himself glancing at them, then quickly looking away when the snake dutifully followed his movement. _I look like the man who sired me_, he thought and kept his gaze straight ahead.

He reached the portrait door and whispered the password. Harry slipped in before the Fat Lady could swing open fully, and he paused at the sound of voices.

"…different now, it's all changed. The boy of the Prophecy could very well have been you."

Harry froze.

"But Gran…"

"Don't tell me you're willing to have let your father go mad in vain, and your poor mother!" There was a pause, a rustling sound. "Last year, things may have been different. But the Potter boy has given up his heritage and taken up with that rotten Slytherin—Snape, was it? A Death Eater if I ever saw one."

"You haven't actually met him, Gran—"

"Nonsense. Griselda told me, and she's seen the Ministry records."

"But Dumbledore wouldn't let a Death Eater teach us unless he was sure about our safety, would he? And there were other parts of the Prophecy that Dumbledore told you, parts about being marked as an equal…"

"Don't try to worm your way out of it! Why are you refusing to bring honor back to the Longbottom name? You are the last of the line. It is your task. I'll talk to Albus, I'm sure he'll see sense. You—"

She stopped. Harry stepped forward, and Neville scrambled out of the way. His face was bloodless even under the reddish glow of the fire, and he looked rather ridiculous in his pajamas.

"Good evening, Mrs. Longbottom," Harry said, moving forward until the head in the fireplace had to crane its neck to meet his face.

"Eavesdropping, Potter?" Mrs. Longbottom barked. She added, when Harry made no reply, "Perhaps I should call you Snape. You don't deserve to dirty the name of your father and mother."

Harry could feel the snake at his neck hiss menacingly, and Mrs. Longbottom blanched. "Leave," she shouted, jerking her head in the direction of the portrait. "Neville! Neville, come, drive this traitor out."

"_Let me bite her eyes out_," the snake hissed, but Harry gripped its neck as it prepared itself to strike.

Harry kept his gaze fixed on the woman's face. She stared back defiantly. "I want you to know," Harry said quietly, after the silence had become unbearable, "that you are welcomed to condemn your only grandson to a life of misery. But I will never forgive you if he chooses such a path upon your machinations. Take heed." He smiled, and knew it was a ghastly sort of grin, a twist of a sneer and a leer. "A Snape's promise is colder than a Potter's."

He turned without another word and walked the long way to the stairs. The world faded to darkness as he ascended them, moving like a wraith in the darkness as he performed the movements without thought, without consciousness.

At last, when he was lying in his bed, the snake coiled silently on his chest, his vision once again the endless expanse of white mist, he heard Neville creeping up the stairs and burrowing into his own bed. Harry waited, waited quietly, his eyes wide open, his breathing as still as an unused grate.

But Neville said nothing, and the sun had warmed the sky with pink before Harry's eyes closed in sleep.

qpqpqp

"What does this do, Professor?" Dean Thomas asked in awe.

Caius Cinna gave his monkey-like smile. "Y drych gwir. All objects shown in it revert to their true forms."

"And this?" Dean asked, holding up a small white pebble.

"A warestone. You can channel a bit of your power through it, or detect those in its presence."

"That's _amazing_, Professor…"

Harry saw Draco roll his eyes, and Harry suppressed a smirk. Class had ended, a few minutes earlier than usual, and the other students were drifting about, investigating Cinna's large collection of artifacts.

"And this professor?"

A few students gathered around what Seamus Finnigan was holding in his hand. Hermione frowned as she took it in her hand and turned it about.

"The sign of water," said Cinna, "to lead to the ancients…"

Draco got out of his chair at last, and then paused. Harry stood, pulling his bag up to shoulder, and joined the Slytherin as they headed past the other students to the doorway.

"You aren't waiting for Granger?" Draco muttered.

Harry glanced back, and the snake turned its gaze to where Hermione was inspecting a small circular thing in her hand.

"No," said Harry, feeling a tug of a fond smile at his lips. "We'll meet her in the library, I suppose." At least we can avoid the other students, Harry thought as they began to move down the corridor.

But moments later he heard footsteps at the doorway, shuffling like that of a quick struggle, then voices, Hermione's—

"Ron! Stay back inside. Don't be an idiot—!"

Harry turned around.

Ron had stalked out of the classroom, and for a moment he was the only person standing there, facing Harry with a smirk on his face and the light sharply illuminating one side of the face.

"Malfoy, and Potter," he sneered.

Draco crossed his arms and looked down at the redhead with an expression of supreme disdain. "What do you want, Weasley?" he asked coldly, but Ron ignored him.

"Catch this, Potter," he called and tossed something through the air.

"Don't!" Draco shouted, but Harry reached his hand up and caught it. It was surprisingly heavy for something that was smaller than his palm. The snake bent its head to look at it, but as it did so, Harry hissed through his teeth. "It's so cold," he muttered, bending down and setting it hastily on the ground.

When he got up, the corridor in front of him was jammed with students—Gryffindors, Slytherins, wide-eyed, whispering and muttering with glances alternating between him and the strange thing on the ground.

Hermione shoved her way to the front of the crowd. "This is ridiculous, Ron, just let them alone!" she snapped, then stopped in front of the thing on the ground. She stood still in a moment of hesitation before she bent down and touched it gently with a finger—but quickly withdrew her hand with a little cry.

"Is it cold, Granger?" Ron demanded. He stepped forward and smiled. "Do you know what it is, Potter?"

Harry narrowed his eyes and kept his face a mask.

"A knut, is it? The last in your coffers?" Draco drawled, looking down. "Or not, it isn't." He looked up and smirked. "I knew there'd be a day when you'd start to make counterfeit money, but I didn't expect you'd be so bad at it."

Harry poked Draco in the ribs, but strangely, Ron ignored the Slytherin, instead bending down and picking up the coin-shaped object. "It's the sign of iron," he said, his voice carrying through the entire hall. "It turns cold at the touch of things Dark, and stays cold unless touched by a thing of Light." He turned to Hermione with an odd expression on his face, but Hermione frowned sharply and strode to Harry's side, opposite to Draco. She said fiercely,

"Harry's scar came from Voldemort—of course it'd turn cold! If Voldemort tried killing you with the Killing Curse and left a scar on your forehead, I bet the sign would turn cold when you touched it, too."

"Stop saying that!" Seamus Finnigan shouted.

Hermione fixed the sandy-haired boy with a steely glare, and Draco opened his mouth to make a mocking comment, but Ron cut in,

"It doesn't matter. Potter's gone dark, that much is clear." Ron took another step forward, but stopped when Hermione stepped in front of him.

"Ronald Weasley, don't make me dock points from Gryffindor," she said in a deadly voice.

A murmur ran through the crowd: a few of the Slytherins smirked, and many of the Gryffindors began to look doubtful. Draco seemed rather impressed. It was ironic, almost absurd, thought Harry, that it would be hatred of him that would, at long last, bring the two most opposing houses together. He scanned the crowd. Neville was absent. Harry wondered what Cinna was doing.

"So you're defending this Death Eater and his Death-Eater friend," Ron snarled. Harry tensed. There was a dangerously mad glint in the redhead's eyes.

"He's _not_ a Death Eater, Ron!" Hermione insisted angrily. "What's wrong with you? Did you eat something strange over the summer? Were you—did you—are you still frazzled from what happened at the end of last year? He's your best friend, Ron, you're the thing he missed most—"

"_He's_ not Harry!" Ron roared and charged like a bull, pushing Hermione aside and launching a punch at Harry's face. Harry stepped aside easily, and Ron staggered past him. "He's—not—Harry!" he yelled, frothing at the mouth as he turned around.

"Don't move, Weasley!" Draco shouted, his voice rather shrill as he edged in front of Harry and pointed his wand at Ron's head, holding it with both hands as though he were holding a Muggle gun.

Harry stepped aside and put a hand gently on the Slytherin's wand. "Draco," he said, feeling a strange sadness and an aching gratitude all at once, "please, no—"

Then, from the end of the corridor, there came the sound of footsteps and chattering voices. The other students had been dismissed, Harry realized with dread. The crowd would only become larger, and the chorus of excited whispers would only become louder. What bloodthirsty beings children are, Harry thought.

"Stand aside, Slytherin," Ron spat, breathing heavily.

"Two points from Gryffindor!" Hermione said.

"Hermione!" Seamus snapped. "Get off your pedestal—Ron's right, Potter _has_ turned Dark."

"I've never heard such— Ron!"

Ron had lunged once more. Harry pushed Draco aside, hearing the cries as the Slytherin stumbled into the crowd, and stepped aside. Ron whirled around again and flung something viciously at Harry's face, but Harry, keenly aware of the object whistling through the air, didn't even have to duck: the object bounced off the wall with a loud clang and clattered over the ground, turning a few circles before falling onto its side. Then, for the third time, roaring like a beast, Ron charged, his fists flailing; Harry stepped aside once more, and Ron ran into the crowd.

Harry felt the voices rising about him, trapping him just as solidly as the wall of bodies. Far away, across the sea of inquisitive heads, Cinna stood in the doorway, his figure haloed by the afternoon sun. _He's waiting_, thought Harry. _Watching_. He looked down and settled his gaze on Ron's face. The senseless grimace of anger and hate and madness was still there, but streaking over down the twisted face were two shiny trails of tears, glistening like rivulets of blood over a massive face of stone.

Ron lunged again. "Harry!" someone shouted—Hermione, perhaps, or Draco—but the next moment was lost in pain as he stumbled backwards, his world careening as his vision dimmed to white.

"_Arglwydd_," the snake hissed anxiously.

Harry straightened and touched his nose. He heard—or felt, or sensed with a sorrowful calm—the next blow coming, and he stepped aside to avoid it, at the same time examining his finger. He was bleeding.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor!" Draco yelled as Hermione tried unsuccessfully to grab Ron, shouting, almost pleading, as she did so— "Stop it, Ron, stop it, please!"

The crowd stirred. "What is going on here?" Professor McGonagall demanded, pushing through the crowd, her brows drawn sharply in a frown. She stepped into the clearing and moved her stony gaze from Harry to Ron to Hermione and back again. "Potter?" she said. "Weasley? Granger? Malfoy?"

Hermione straightened. "Ron… attacked Harry," she said heavily. The silence was complete.

"I see," said McGonagall grimly, but under the flatness of her tone Harry could hear a note of grief, as though she were seeing for the first time the tombstone of a loved one. But then she looked up, and Harry knew that she had met Caius Cinna's gaze. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for fighting in the corridors," she said crisply. "Both of you, Potter and Weasley, will be having detention. Weasley, come with me to see Professor Dumbledore, and Potter, you had better go to the hospital wing."

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry.

She left, Ron following her with his head down. In moments, the crowd deteriorated, falling apart and washing away with disinterest. The chatting began again, and Harry could almost believe that nothing had happened.

Hermione bent and picked up the object Ron had thrown. Harry peered at it: it was a circle of dark-coloured metal divided into quarters. "The sign of iron," Hermione muttered. "Go on, Harry. I'd better return it to Professor Cinna."

"What possessed you to let him smash your nose like that?" Draco asked, frowning. "It's bleeding quite a bit."

Harry shrugged. "I guess I didn't want to run."

"Aren't you going to the Hospital Wing? Ugh, your blood is going to get onto your robes if you don't do something."

"D'you have a—handkerchief?"

Draco thrust something into Harry's hand, and Harry mopped at the blood that was flowing from his hose. The snake lifted its head and flicked its tongue over Harry's nose.

Hermione returned, hoisting her satchel over her shoulders as she hurried towards them. "You should've gone without me," she said. "Your nose looks rather bad." She started for the hospital wing. "Harry?"

Harry moved in the opposite direction. "This way."

"Where are we heading?" Hermione asked, breaking occasionally into a trot to keep up with Harry's pace. "Draco, where's he heading?"

"I wouldn't know," Draco answered negligently.

Hermione made a frustrated noise. "Harry! You have to go to the hospital wing, your _nose_—"

Harry took out his wand and stopped. The only people in the hall were far away at either end. "_Conviso_," he said, pointing his wand at the nose.

"Harry! You've just had a few lessons! You should—"

"It's not broken, I think," Harry muttered. "I'm fine, don't worry. _Medicor_." He felt a stirring in his nose, and he scrunched up his face. The pain disappeared; there was only a faint itching left.

"Harry?"

He sneezed. "I'm perfectly fine," he said, touching his nose. "Come on, let's go."

He continued until they were in an empty corridor. It was, he realized, the same corridor he had been in when he had summoned the snake, where he had seen Hermione, for the first time, since he had emerged from the world of paintings.

"So, why are we here?" Draco said, glancing around.

"To get away from the other people," Harry said. He made his way down the corridor. He could hear footsteps from far away, but they seemed to be part of another world. He paused. "Is it just me, or…"

"What?" Hermione said, but Draco moved ahead and peered at the doorknob. He glanced at Harry hesitantly, then held it, turned, and pushed.

"It _is_!" Draco exclaimed. "But I thought the entrance was around the dungeons!"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked. She peered inside, taking in the simple bed, the desk, the barred window, and the portrait that mirrored the living world. "It must lead to a different part of the castle, judging from the window," she said, walking to the window and looking out. "Somewhere around North Tower, I would expect. Have you been in here, Harry?"

Harry didn't reply. He was distracted by the painting that hung on the side of the corridor opposite to the door.

"_That's the scraping tree_," Harry hissed disbelievingly.

"_It is_," the snake replied. "_Strange that everything should occur in one place, isn't it_?"

Harry nodded, then wrenched his gaze from the sight of the stout trunk that was twisted at its head into many branches, all trembling nakedly like bare arms in the wind.

"I don't think I'd have stumbled here accidentally and stayed," Hermione mused, peering at the portrait. "It's too much like a cell… Isn't that picture a portrait of this room?"

"Yes," said Harry, and he shut the door as he entered the room.

"It's a nice room to cool down in," Draco said, sitting in the chair and assuming a negligent pose with his head resting on his hand. "Especially after dealing with Weasley. Didn't you have the feeling that there was something very wrong with him…?"

"There is," said Harry solemnly. He made his way to the bed and sat on it, resting the back of his head against the wall. The room began to blur, and he let his vision fade to white. "It was the brain, Hermione. Thought scars."

Draco sounded confused. "What?"

"An injury Ron suffered at the end of last year in the Department of Mysteries," Hermione explained quickly. "Who told you that, Harry?"

"Mrs. Weasley, last night." He paused, hoping that he would not be asked to elaborate. But Draco said a moment later in an inquisitive tone,

"When did you meet Mrs. Weasley?"

"I can't say," Harry said, painfully aware that it was half a lie. "Dumbledore asked me not to." I'll fill Hermione in later, he thought. But Draco… He felt a splinter of guilt. There was no question that Draco still loved his father, and there was no telling what the son would do to win the father's love—or what any lonely soul might do to be wanted, to bridge the solitude. But that was the heart of the matter. He pitied Draco; he felt compassion; no matter how Draco might protest such sentiments, they were there. Perhaps it was due to his own loneliness, or perhaps it was simply being himself—being still in part the boy who had chosen to be a Gryffindor—that he wanted to be the bridge over troubled waters.

"Ooh," Draco drawled, though Harry thought he sounded disappointed. "Such secrecy."

"Well, Professor Dumbledore has his reasons," Hermione said stoutly. "But is there any way they can… help Ron?—that you can tell us, that is."

Harry shrugged. "Mrs. Weasley said they were planning to take Ron to see certain people over the hols, like the Oracle of Delphi and some Fountain or another, but St. Mungo's was unable to do anything." He shook his head. "It's really too bad. First Percy then Ron."

Draco gave a hollow little laugh. "Isn't it a bit strange that other people are probably holding such conversations about us? I know my mum surely is, probably with dear Aunt Bella."

"Yes," said Hermione. "My parents, too. I don't think they really want me to come here, especially after second year. If they knew about last year, I'd be stuck in some boarding school for aspiring dentists."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I doubt Sirius would be happy with… everything," he said. "Remus doesn't seem to mind, and in his will Sirius didn't exactly command me to murder Snape, but…" He chuckled grimly. "He'd be glad, I expect, that Snape hates me."

"He doesn't," said Draco immediately. "Snape, that is." He continued, when Harry made no reply, "When you disappeared for a month to Merlin-knows-where, Snape was angrier than I'd ever seen him. Even Slytherin lost points. On certain days, the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs got net negative points. For someone who's supposed to hate you more than anything else, he seemed pretty broken up when you were gone."

"It could be that he just felt responsible," said Harry, sounding faintly distressed, "or that Dumbledore made him feel guilty—or that he's too damned stubborn to let me die so easily—"

"In any case he doesn't hate you," said Draco. "Why else would he be so happy now that you're back?"

"He's not happy," Harry said tightly.

"Yes he is—_happy_, as in, cheerful, disgustingly chirpy, although he's pretty desperate not to show it. I think he's rather fond of you, if he doesn't—you know—actually love you like a son—"

"Stop!" Harry cried and suddenly clenched his hands into fists. Draco stopped abruptly. "Just—" Harry let his hands fall limply by his sides, but his shoulders were still tense. "Please don't talk about him."

"I thought you—"

"_Don't!"_

Silence fell, like the aftermath of thunder.

"You know," said Hermione in an artificially conversational tone, "I wonder how Quidditch is going this year. Ginny's quite a good Seeker, isn't she?"

"Yes—yes, Ginny," Harry said quickly. "She's quite good, or she was quite good last year, I remember. Has Slytherin beaten Gryffindor lately?"

"We haven't had a game this year yet," Draco said icily. "And that was a very clumsy attempt to change the topic."

"It's not an attempt," Harry snapped. "We're talking about Quidditch now. Hermione, have the Chudley Cannons won any games yet?"

"Um…" Hermione looked from one to the other with a hesitant expression on her face. "Have they, Malfoy? I mean, Draco. I'm not too sure, but they've had a very long history of losses, haven't they? That's what it said in _Quidditch Through the Ages_."

The conversation went on haltingly. Draco did most of the talking as he filled Harry in on all the Quidditch events that had happened over the last two months. He sounded sullen for the most part, and Harry wished he might take back his words, or somehow ease the stiffness between them. But how could he? It would mean talking about—everything, and that he couldn't do. He couldn't.

"We really should go over the Mandrake Restorative Draught," said Hermione, right after Draco had finished narrating the game between the Falmouth Falcons and the Holyhead Harpies. "It's quite a complicated potion, and we're beginning it tomorrow."

_Excellent_, Harry thought bleakly as he let Hermione's chattering filter through his head. _There'll be more chances for me to mess up then_. His mind went again to Draco's words, and a deep unyielding dread swept through his body like an ominous wind.

qpqpqp

"Your technique needs improvement when you perform the _Excosso_," Snape said.

Harry bowed his head. Snape picked up another sleeping puffskein and pointed his wand at a delicate arm. "_Concutere ossis_," Snape said, twisting his wand in a jagged motion. Harry heard a slight crunch, that of bones shattering into tiny fragments, and then Snape set the animal, still unconscious, onto the metallic table.

The room was silent, unnaturally silent. Usually the puffskeins rustled about, chirping and muttering, or squealing in chorus as the latest victim thrashed in pain; but Snape had decided to use an anesthetic potion this time. He had given no explanation. Harry wondered if he ought to be grateful.

He put his wand at the puffskein's arm and made a slight cut. He murmured, "_Excosso_." A whitish steam began to rise from the wound, and Harry waved the wand slightly to keep it moving, forming faint patterns in the air. "_Finite Incantatem_," he said when nothing seemed to be rising from the limp flesh, and the steam melted from the air, forming swirls of grounded bone on the blood-splotched surface.

Harry traced his wand along the boneless segment. _Grow_, he willed it. "_Medicor_," he whispered, and felt the magic from each end of bone reaching out for each other, like the hands of two blind men stranded in a desert. "Grow," he muttered, stroking the segment with his wand.

Moments later, he sighed and withdrew his wand. Snape reached out a hand and picked up the sleeping puffskein, inspecting it in his hand.

"_It's healed_," observed the snake with disappointment. "_And that one looked particularly juicy_."

Harry tapped its head sharply.

"_He has no problem with me eating them when they're dead_," the snake muttered. "_Why do you, arglwydd_?"

Harry made no answer, keeping himself as stony and still as a granite sentinel.

"_Ennervate_," Snape said, tapping his wand on the puffskein's head. It awoke, blinking blearily before wriggling about in the Potions Master's hand. "It doesn't seem to have a limp," said Snape, letting the puffskein scramble from hand to hand. He reached out a long index finger and traced a line down the animal's belly; it scrunched up and made a curious giggling noise. "Anyway," said Snape, letting the puffskein drop into the bin of other puffskeins. "I believe you are quite done, Potter. You may let your greedy pet gorge itself."

"_I am not a greedy pet_," the snake said indignantly, though it turned eagerly towards the pile of dead puffskeins. "_May I, arglwydd_?"

"_Go on,_" Harry said, pulling the snake off and dumping it unceremoniously next to the pile of carcasses. The snake coiled itself and stared up, and Harry found himself seeing his own face: set and expressionless, the green eyes half-lidded and soulless.

"_Arglwydd_," the snake said slowly, "_I do not understand, but if you truly do not wish me to eat these dead things, then I shall not_."

"_I never said anything of the kind_," Harry said shortly. "_Eat however many you want. Go on. Eat them_."

The snake bent its head slowly and picked through the pile carefully, finally finding a very scrawny puffskein. Then it opened its mouth and slowly engulfed the shattered carcass.

"Not much of an appetite today," said Snape.

Harry made no reply. He was facing somewhere else, somewhere that was neither the snake nor Snape, but the snake was still staring intently at his face. Harry wished it didn't. He didn't want to see anything—not his face, not Snape's. He wanted to see nothing at all.

He wondered why Snape wasn't moving around and leaving him alone.

"Well, Potter," said Snape after a long silence, "I heard from your Head of House about that incident involving Weasley."

The snake began to crawl towards him, moving sluggishly up his arm and towards his neck. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

Snape crossed his arms. "Professor Dumbledore, having your best interests at heart, has decided that it would be better if you were to be removed from such a threat."

A threat, thought Harry. He could feel the snake slithering up about his shoulders like the clammy touch of hands. "Yes, sir."

"He has decided, therefore, that it would be best if you room elsewhere, and not in close proximity with someone who has such violent tendencies."

Harry licked his lips. He felt cold, as if he were lying naked in the numbing snow. "Yes, sir?"

"He has decided to offer you a place in the dungeons—in fact, one that is… very close to my own quarters," Snape said at last.

The snake found its way to Harry's throat, and suddenly it felt like a noose around his neck. He swayed. He had withdrawn his mind from the snake's eyes as it had crawled up his arm, and now the utter whiteness seemed to surround him like a suffocating shroud.

"I—couldn't possibly accept—"

"Still hold loyal sentiments to your House?" said Snape coolly, but not unkindly. "Have no fear, Potter. You shall remain a Gryffindor."

Harry shook his head, his mouth dry. "No, no—it's just—" He stopped, and the snake shifted restlessly around his neck.

"If it's not clear enough that your House allegations are the same," Snape drawled, "I'm sure the headmaster will find it no difficulty to announce it publicly."

Harry shook his head again, his hands clenching the sharp edge of the metal table. "It's not that, sir, it's—it's not that at all—"

"Then why, Potter? Why?"

Harry could feel his armpits dampen and his breaths quicken with the thudding of his heart.

"Speak up! Don't make me take points from Gryffindor."

"It's because I _can't_—"

He stopped.

"Can't?" Snape demanded, beginning to pace. "And why is that, Potter? Too close to the slimy Slytherins for comfort? Too far away from the legions of fans gone astray? Uncomfortable in the '_enemy's_' territory? Too—"

"Because I don't want to be near you," said Harry at last. The silence fell, impregnable. Deafening. "I don't want to be near you," he repeated hoarsely, each word falling like the crunch of an ice pick.

"And pray," said Snape slowly, stretching the words out like a body on a machine of torture, "why?"

"WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?" Harry demanded, suddenly angry, suddenly shouting with greater volume than he had since his uncle had carved scars deep into his flesh. "Why do you _care_? Isn't it enough that I don't want you near me? That I just might"—he spat the next word out, feeling spittle land on his chin—"_hate_ you?"

The silence fell again like a heavy blade. Harry slowly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Ah," Snape said laboriously, sounding as though he had just been struck. "I _see_. I'm glad that you have decided, Potter, to make your sentiments clear. And I shall do the same." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Get out."

Harry stayed still.

"GET OUT!" Snape screamed, and Harry turned and ran, half expecting a jar of cockroaches to hurtle through the air and shatter above his head. But as he stumbled out of the hospital wing, heart slamming against his ribs and breath coming in shuddering gasps, he was followed only by silence.

"_Arglwydd_!" the snake hissed angrily once they were several corridors away and Harry had narrowly avoided smashing into a shield of armor more than once. "_What did you mean by that? Why did you refuse him—your father, after all this time_?"

Harry stopped and grabbed handfuls of his hair and clenched it in fists, bowing his head and lurching into the wall. The snake turned itshead and flicked at Harry's face. "_Why, arglwydd_?" It sounded befuddled, confused, angry. "_Why?"_

Harry made an unintelligible noise and stumbled forward, staggering headlong into a suit of armor. It crashed to the floor, the cacophony of metal tumbling over stone clanking and echoing down the entire corridor—

"_Answer me—why_?" The snake hissed even more furiously, digging its tail between Harry's shoulder blades. "_Why_?" it demanded. "_Why?—speak, you human! Speak!"_

Harry grabbed the snake from his neck and flung it away. "BECAUSE WHENEVER I'M NEAR HIM I HEAR HIM SAYING NO!" he screamed. "I hear him saying that he's ashamed of me, that he _hates_ me, that I'm not worth _shit_ in his eyes!" He pounded his fists into his legs and struck out, smashing his fists into the unforgiving walls. "It fucking HURTS me, don't you see? _IT—FUCKING—HURTS!"_ His voice was almost gone, and he buried his face in one hand, crying openly now. "I can't take it anymore," he sobbed. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I _can't_."

The corridor echoed with silence, echoing like a vast expanse of arctic tundra. But as Harry fought to control his sobs, he heard, at the end of the corridor, the sound of footsteps—footsteps that he knew better than any other: quiet footsteps that now crept to the darkness of the dungeons. When they became too indistinct to hear, Harry sprawled onto the ground, pushing his ear against the floor, and listened with a trembling body as the sounds faded, faded, faded to nothing.


	19. Things Fall Apart

_A/N: Thanks once more to Procyon Black, for the quick and speedy beta, and more importantly for her words of encouragement_.

* * *

**Chapter 19: Things Fall Apart **

The cold stone floor was utterly still. He felt his cheek slowly numbing, as though it were pressed against a slab of ice. Then he heard the snake moving slowly towards him, and felt the forked tongue tickling his ear.

"_Arglwydd_?" it said quietly, with more hesitation than Harry had ever heard it use. "_I am sorry_."

Harry sat up. The ground was painful under him, and as he shifted his leg, his foot hit part of the fragmented suit of armor, and it skittered noisily over the ground. "_Don't be_," he said.

"_Sometimes I lose sight of the heart of the matter_," the snake continued with a grave moroseness in its tone. "_I forget that even the largest tapestry of fate is made of many single strands_."

"_You've nothing to be sorry for_," Harry said, wrapping his arms around his chest, hiding his hands within his sleeves. He didn't want to feel the faint tickling of the snake's tongue over his fingers. "_After all, there will never be an answer—there will never be a resolution_." He added, after a pause, "_Nothing truly matters at all_. _We just go on_."

"_Ah_," muttered the snake, coiling itself at Harry's feet. "_You make me wish I could eat my words. Again, I apologize, arglwydd. I am sorry_."

But you are not saying you had been lying, that there is an answer and a resolution and a meaning to this all, thought Harry as he rocked himself. You only say you wish you hadn't told me the truth. And what are apologies to the truth?Harry let out a breath of despair and felt as though the entire world were pressing against him, binding him down until he could hardly breathe. If only apologies came so easily with me, he thought idly, and rubbed his face with his hands until he stopped thinking about it. "_I've told you already_," he mumbled into his hands, "_you've nothing to be sorry for_."

"_But I do; will you forgive me, master_?"

No, thought Harry. "_Yes_," he said dully. He put his hands behind him, feeling them press into the cracks of the walls, and pushed himself into a standing position. "_I've always wondered_," he said, "_if you've got a name of your own. Not just 'snake_.'"

"_A name_?" said the snake, sounding rather perplexed. "_I don't think so. We snakes just are_."

"_Someone's coming_," said Harry, tense. Then he relaxed. The footsteps were not his father's. "_Let's go_." He stepped forward—and his foot came in contact with yet another piece of armor. It hit the wall with a deafening clank.

The snake darted up the length of his arm and around his shoulders. "_Arglwydd_—" it hissed as the footsteps drew near; but Harry darted forward almost by instinct, and the world remained a canvas of white. He waited to trip over yet another piece of armor or crash headlong into a wall, but he was already very near Gryffindor Tower by the time he stopped, and he had touched nothing. It's like floating, he thought, feeling a bit lighter and a bit freer as he uttered the password to the Fat Lady.

He was accosted moments after he clambered over the threshold.

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione, jumping to her feet. "You're back really late today, I though you had—er—got lost, or something."

"No, Snape just kept me unusually long," said Harry. He felt the snake rub its head almost imploringly against his chin, and, with a hint of resignation, let his mind seep back into the snake's mind. The room came into focus: the pairs and groups of students studying in silence or chatting happily, and Hermione looking at him with an expression that was half concern and half anxiousness.

"Well—how were your lessons?"

"Fine," he said again, his tone too stiffly neutral to escape her notice.

"Harry, if something happened…" She looked him up and down and frowned at his hands. She snatched them up, and Harry drew in a sharp breath as she ran her fingers over his knuckles. "Harry—you're hurt!"

Harry pulled his hands away and held them briefly in the snake's line of sight. "It's not much," he said dismissively. "Anyway—" He tried to think of some other thing to say, but Hermione snatched his hands back up again.

"How did this happen?" she demanded. "Snape didn't force you to punch a wall and then heal yourself, did he?"

Harry shoved his hands behind his back. "Of course not!" he snapped. People were staring at them now. "Can you please not ask me anymore questions, Hermione?"

"Harry—"

"I really don't want to talk right now," he snarled. Hermione said nothing, and he added, his words miserably inadequate, "I'm sorry." Then he turned away and mounted the staircase up to the boys' dormitory, one hand trailing over the walls as he moved. Touch grounded him, even as the whirl of colors and movements and shadows tried to lift him into a white emptiness. I'll think about Hermione later, he thought. I can't think of it now. Not now.

He entered the sixth year dorm, and as he did so, he heard a rustling movement. The snake arched its head. Sitting in only pajamas, looking as frightened and pale as a little boy staring down at the tip of a Death Eater's wand, was Neville Longbottom.

The name was half on Harry's lips, but it expired like a half-formed wind. Something that was half pity and half cold anger bloomed in his heart, and he broke the pause and walked silently to his bed, lying on it carefully with movements as deliberate as an old man's. He had to wait only a few moments before Neville stood, his movements fraught with hesitation, and left, treading as though he were in the wake of the dead.

"_He's the one whose grandmother wants him to take your rightful place_," hissed the snake, letting some of the old hauteur creep back in.

"Yes," Harry whispered. The darkness felt familiar, and he realized that he wanted it: sometimes, the white mist made him feel too vulnerable, as though he were alone on a vast open plain. At least in the dark he could pretend he was enclosed in a cocoon of warmth.

"_He heard it, didn't he_?" Harry muttered, slipping into Parseltongue. "_He heard it, and then went to the dungeons_."

"_Your father_?"

Harry nodded, a bit hesitantly, as though not acknowledging the name or relation could somehow make it less unbearable.

"_Well, you shouted most of it in English, so I expect he did_," said the snake, carefully.

Harry shut his eyes and curled himself into a ball, pressing his face into the soft covers the way he had done to the floor to hear the footsteps recede. But he took a deep breath and stretched himself out until he was like a corpse, rigid as a board. He opened his eyes and let the white mist return.

qpqpqp

Hermione looked impatient for the entirety of breakfast, and even the lesson with McGonagall on the finer details of animate transfiguration did nothing to lessen the look of determination on herface. Harry was reminded vaguely of her SPEW crusade. A bit strange, he thought with an inkling of dread as he avoided meeting Hermione's gaze, that he was to become one of her 'projects.' No wonder Draco disliked any sort of charitable feeling.

By sitting in close proximity to a few Gryffindor fourth years, Harry managed to procrastinate the inquisition through lunch. The looks of fear and suspicion he received made the mashed potatoes seem somewhat indelible, but a part of him was desperate not to be asked the questions, to be made to trudge through the agonizing ritual of mutual frustration, to be forced to think of the colossal specter of shame and pain.

Hermione caught him in an empty corridor outside the Great Hall right after lunch.

"Well?" she said, standing in the middle of the hall with her feet somewhat apart. She gave him a questioning look, and her brows were drawn in a frown.

"Well what?" Harry said, his voice managing to stay calm and dark. "We're going to be late for Charms."

"Don't pretend to be stupid," Hermione replied shortly. "You come back last night with bloody knuckles and looking as though you'd been to Azkaban and back, and then you stagger upstairs and Neville comes down looking as though he'd seen a ghost."

Harry shrugged tightly. "Well, why don't you ask Neville?"

"What?"

"Nevermind," Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. "We'll be late for—"

"That's too bad then," Hermione snapped. "Professor Flitwick will just have to understand. And we've still got time. Plenty of time."

They stood facing each other like contestants in a ring, or two silent glaciated peaks, or two mortal enemies. Harry could feel his heart beating against his ribcage, beating against the insides of his arms as he hugged himself tightly.

Footsteps approached, and Harry relaxed himself rigidly. Then he realized it was Draco, and really relaxed.

"What's going on here?" asked Draco, walking so that he was a third way between Harry and Hermione.

"Harry here got back to Gryffindor last night after a lesson with Professor Snape with bleeding knuckles and looking very—upset," said Hermione testily.

Draco glanced at Harry with narrowed eyes. "Why?"

"He won't tell me," Hermione said curtly.

"Why should it matter if I keep it to myself?" Harry demanded. He raised his gaze so that he was staring Draco straight in the eye. "Why should I—why should I _disembowel_ myself before you? You understand secrets." He tried to fathom anything out of the grey eyes. "You do."

"It's not about secrets or disemboweling you!" Hermione said, trying unsuccessfully to keep her tone reasonable and calm. "I'm just concerned, Harry, and I really think you should get it off your chest. It's not healthy keeping it all in like that, isn't it, Draco?"

Draco leaned slightly back so that his weight was resting half on one foot and half against the wall. "It's his secret, Granger," he said, and shrugged. "You're not his keeper of secrets."

Harry felt his heart rise like a balloon, filling with relief and gratitude, but Hermione snapped,

"Take his side, then! But it's not good, Harry—even Dumbledore's concerned. Lately he's constantly been glancing from you to Snape and back again; and all through dinner last night, he was looking more concerned than ever before, and did you see him this morning and at lunch? He looked like an old man."

"He is an old man," Draco retorted, but Harry felt as though he'd been struck by a blow. Dumbledore _was_ an old man, and an old man with more troubles than anyone Harry knew—himself included. But at the same time, Dumbledore's request had been—impossible; it had— He couldn't. Harry pushed away the thought and straightened his arms.

"Hermione, we'll be late for Charms," he said tightly, "and Draco, I think you'll be late for your next class, too."

Draco grimaced. "True, that. Vector will be in a fix." He nodded to Harry and Hermione. "I'll see you later, then."

"Let's go," said Harry, moving swiftly down the corridor in case Hermione decided to waylay him once more. Fortunately, she kept silent all the way to the entrance of Flitwick's classroom, and Harry felt a small measure of relief tentatively beginning to form within him. But then he glanced at Hermione as they entered ("Almost late," Flitwick chirped) and saw the gleam of determination in her eyes.

"Well, tomorrow, you'll have lessons with your father again," said Hermione, settling down in her seat with the look of one who had lost a battle but was determined to win the campaign.

Harry sank down next to her, feeling a heavy mantle of dread fall on him like the reading of a death sentence.

"Yes," he said heavily. "I do."

The dread grew within him, writhing like a dragon in a troubled slumber. It preoccupied him enough that he messed up on the Deciphering Charm when Flitwick came by; and by the time he and Hermione trooped down to the Great Hall for dinner, the shepherd's pie might as well have been made of toad innards.

"Aren't you hungry?" asked Hermione, shoveling some peas and carrots onto his plate. "These are good, really, and healthy."

Harry shook his head and made a small dune of peas with his fork. "I don't feel like eating, for some reason," he said in a tight, controlled voice.

"You're not that worried about your lessons with Snape tomorrow, are you?"

Harry's forkful of peas scattered over the table. He scowled. "Of course not!" he snapped. "Why would I?"

Hermione gave him a wordless look before silently sipping her pumpkin juice and taking another helping of vegetables. Harry glowered and turned some peas to mush with his fork. Why was he being so strung-up about the lessons tomorrow? There was no reason to be; it was ridiculous, he told himself: irrational, stupid, weak…

Hermione looked up, and Harry followed her gaze to find Snape striding into the Great Hall, his cloak billowing angrily behind him as he stalked to the head table and took his usual seat at the end. Harry glanced away quickly.

There was no escaping the fact that Snape had heard—everything. Perhaps even seen it. Surely Snape had heard him break down and scream like a self-centered, immature brat, like a typical teenager in a temper tantrum; surely Snape had heard him crash into the suits of armor and wail out his agony for everyone to hear…

He shuddered and peeled the memory from his mind like a layer of ice from his skin. How could he have lost control? If someone had happened on him, everyone in the Hall would know it by now. But perhaps it would be better that way. Snape wouldn't be the only one who knew, and those who hated him for loving his father would, perhaps, not hate him anymore…

But at the same time, he felt a deep aching in his throat. He couldn't help the terrible hope from forming in his heart and blooming through his body with the same intensity as his shame. His father knew everything now. His heart was laid bare—bare, spread-eagled on a snow-capped peak, open to the sky and sun and wind and rain. There was no hiding anymore, and perhaps his father might—perhaps he just might—

He made an involuntary noise.

"What?" said Hermione, looking puzzled. "Did you say something, Harry?"

Harry cleared his throat. "N-no, nothing," he said, and stuffed a spoonful of mush into his mouth. The back of his eyes throbbed. He set down the fork and looked at the mess on his plate. "I think I've a headache."

"Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?" asked Hermione, looking concerned.

Harry shook his head. "I'm fine. I just—I think I should review tomorrow's Potion." He stood without noticing the troubled look Hermione sent him; and as he walked quickly down the corridor and to the stairwell, his stomach feeling as though it were filled with lead, he thought he felt a piercing dark gaze on his back, but he didn't turn around to see.

qpqpqp

The entrance to the hospital wing looked as it always did, but Harry paused outside its doors and stared up at the simple decorations and designs. It was several moments before the image even began to register in his mind.

"_Arglwydd_?" murmured the snake.

"_I'm fine_," Harry said automatically. There was still time. But this was it. Potions had been a whirl of brewing and concocting, and Snape had been too preoccupied chewing out a hapless Ravenclaw who had blown up her cauldron to pay much attention to anyone else. So Harry had began lunch with a shadow of an appetite, but after Snape failed to show up at the head table, he felt sick down to the pits of his stomach. Hermione had been concerned, and had said comforting things—none of which entered his brain—but now, after walking like a condemned man to the gallows, through the same corridor in which he had collapsed the day before (the suits of armor were back in place, he managed to notice)—

He swallowed hard and began to move down the long row of cots. It felt vaguely as though someone else were controlling his arms and legs, for his mind was numb, except to the inexorable pounding of his heart. He was dimly aware of part of him squealing like a piglet, hyperventilating with panic and dread: don't go, I don't want to go, I want to leave, I'm scared, terrified—

Unsteadily, he put a hand on the doorknob, leaving shaky marks of moisture where his fingertips touched the metal. Then he turned the knob and stepped inside.

The snake peered around, rotating its head and glancing up at the ceiling and the floor. "_It's empty_," it hissed.

Harry moved next to the metal table in the center of the room, keenly aware of his thudding heart. "_He's probably late_," Harry said, keeping his gaze on the door. "_Maybe he's finishing a difficult potion_…"

"_The puffskeins aren't here either_," observed the snake. "_He's usually very well prepared, isn't he? I can't remember him ever being here after you arrived_—"

The door swung open and Madam Pomfrey entered briskly. "Hello, Harry," she said. She flicked her wand and a crate of puffskeins came sailing in behind her. "Professor Snape is busy today with making a very complicated potion, so I'll be doing lessons with you instead."

Without waiting for a response, she took out a roll of parchment and peered at it. "I see Professor Snape has gone over most of the basics of elementary healing with you… Simple cuts, lacerations, scrapes… Even muscle injuries. That's further than I'd expected." Her eyes wandered down the list and her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. "Much further that I'd expected." She put away the parchment and looked at Harry with a frown. "Healing injuries inflicted to the skeletal system?" she said in an incredulous voice.

"Y—es," said Harry.

"Well, if you don't mind, Harry, I'd like you to show me," she said, lifting a puffskein gently out of the crate. "_Stupefy_," she said, tapping it with her wand. "Did he use the Bone-Shattering Hex?"

"I'm… not sure," he lied, watching Madam Pomfrey frown and prod one of the puffskein's legs with her wand. He felt unsettled, as though someone had ripped a rug from under his feet, and he was falling, still wondering whether he would land on his head or his feet.

"Heal this," said Pomfrey, handing him the puffskein.

Harry took the unconscious body in his hand, and involuntarily he glanced up—only to stop himself before the snake could follow his gaze and look at the door that was still closed and unmoving.

Focus, he told himself irritably. What's it to you that he's not here? Why should it matter at all? He prodded the leg of the puffskein. "_Excosso_," he muttered, slowly moving his wand away and watching with a sense of detachment the white mist curl until nothing more emerged.

"Good, very good," said Madam Pomfrey, her voice coming unexpectedly. He paused, for a moment annoyed that she had spoken, but returned to stroking the limp leg with his wand.

"_Medicor_," he said, and bent his mind on guiding the growth of the bone. The sense of injury faded, and the flush of well-being returned, and Harry laid the puffskein gently down on the metallic surface.

"Remarkable," said Madam Pomfrey, sounding duly impressed. "I daresay you've got a gift of healing in you, Mr. Potter."

Harry said nothing, though he managed to force a semblance of a smile to his face. I'm not a Potter anymore, he thought. Don't think that I still am, and only in another skin.

"I think we might move on to some of the much more complicated aspects of healing, such as the effects of time delay on healing magic," said Pomfrey, still sounding rather incredulous.

"All right," said Harry reluctantly. He felt somehow that he was embarking on doing something wrong, something that he shouldn't be doing at all. Where was Snape? His father's absence couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Why wasn't he here—why? Was it because of—? He axed the thought and snarled at himself viciously: it doesn't matter, you fool. He has every reason to avoid you now. Why would he want to see you trembling and twitching like a coward? He probably told Dumbledore everything he heard (Harry could picture the sneer of satisfaction, the vindictive twist in the voice), and Dumbledore (resignedly, with a weary sigh that twisted Harry's soul with guilt) probably relieved Snape of his unpleasant duties. And Harry could almost see the triumphant smirk on the sallow face and feel the wind of black robes billowing like the banners of a nightmare…

He pulled himself out of his reverie and tried to pay attention to what Madam Pomfrey was saying. But the words slid through his mind like dead twigs over an icy lake, scattering aimlessly over the vast expanse of nothingness. What was the point? he wondered vaguely. He could see Hermione asking him how lessons were, see himself answering in the same tight voice, picture the ensuing argument after which he'd hide in his dormitory, or in some abandoned classroom, or in the secret room where he had first seen Draco; it was like a vicious cycle, and he was tired, weary of living it, sick of fighting and arguing and feeling rotten afterwards—

Fortunately Madam Pomfrey didn't ask him to do any practical work. After she went on about the magical workings of healing after a delay of time and continued with the ethical issues involved, she performed a demonstration and then assigned Harry some background reading to do.

"It's a bit on how the problem of time-delayed healing was solved by Midilus Miggleby," said Pomfrey, levitating the crate of puffskeins with a spell. "It's always good to know the history of a thing, and not just how to do it or solve it…"

"Yes," said Harry, cutting her off short. "Do you know if Professor Snape will be back next Tuesday?"

The nurse seemed unfazed. "I can't say," said Pomfrey, tidying the room. "Who knows what potion Professor Dumbledore will have him brew next?"

Feeling strangely irritable, Harry trudged out the hospital wing and glanced around before continuing down the corridor.

"_I don't think she knows that I like puffskeins_," said the snake. It nudged Harry's chin. "_Mice are difficult to catch nowadays_."

"_Then eat rats_," Harry said shortly.

The snake said nothing more, only lowering its head and remaining motionless as Harry passed the many suits of armor. A moment passed, and then another, and Harry began to feel guilt worm uncomfortably in his heart. But right after the feeling formed, a part within him hissed: so what if acting angry and snappish wasn't what he should do? All that mattered was that he killed Voldemort. And the snake was bound to him as a servant anyhow; what did it matter that he was impolite to this reptile, his slave?

He heard the brisk footsteps before he saw their source, and he stiffened as Professor McGonagall walked up to him, her lips pressed rather tightly, "There you are, Potter. The headmaster wants to see you right away."

Harry bit back an angry remark. "Yes, professor," he said and changed his course so that he was heading to the headmaster's office.

Why does he want to see me again? he thought, the anger still bubbling in his mind. Does he think I want to see him? He saw again the weary blue eyes and felt a flash of irritation, irritation that masked the unhappy tendril of guilt. The snake hissed and the gargoyle stepped aside. Does he have anything to say to me besides his usual useless mutterings, which are always about me and—

Snape. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and his hands became clammy in an instant. That was it. Dumbledore was calling him up for a 'reconciliation.' Dear God. Snape was going to tear him apart. He stopped in midstep up the moving staircase and wished desperately that he didn't have to go, that he could hide—anywhere, in the Chamber, the secret room, in a field of white mist—

The door was before him now. He swallowed hard. He took a deep breath and reached out a hand—

"Ah, Harry," said Dumbledore, smiling warmly, as the door opened by itself. "Do sit."

Harry entered and looked around bewilderedly. Snape wasn't there. Snape was… not there. Then he quickly sat down before Dumbledore could notice.

"Sherbet lemons?" said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. "Or maybe a few of these Reese's Cups? They're quite good, you know."

"No, thank you," Harry said guardedly.

Dumbledore sighed and let the grandfatherly mask decay. "You are well aware, I trust, of the implications of the last Order meeting?"

Harry thought back to Pettigrew's bloody head and the look of loathing that appeared for an infinitesimally brief moment on Caius Cinna's face. He wondered if the stain was still on the desk, but at the moment he was staring over Dumbledore's shoulder at the empty bird perch. "Yes."

"Voldemort is planning a ritual of sorts most likely involving the blood sacrifice of the eleven orphans he kidnapped. We now know the exact date of this ritual. Voldemort will attempt it on the next full moon."

"Oh," said Harry. He lowered his gaze and looked at the tabletop of Dumbledore's desk and saw a set of dizzily spinning silver pinwheels. "And we must stop it."

"Yes," said Dumbledore.

Harry looked closer, though he remained motionless. The shadow from the pinwheels obscured the place where the stain of blood had been, and—it seemed a darker hue, but—

The door opened and the impatient footsteps froze almost immediately.

"Professor Dumbledore," said Snape after a long pause in a slow, sneering sort of voice. "I thought it was understood that my meeting with you would not involve any eavesdroppers?"

"Nonsense!" chuckled Dumbledore, pointing his wand at the space next to Harry. A chair appeared. Harry stiffened. "Harry here is no eavesdropper—at least, not right now." He winked, but Harry felt only a spike of panicked anger in return. "I was informing him about the preparations of the operation."

Snape was silent for another moment. "Don't think you can fool any of us, Professor Dumbledore," he said softly, but pronouncing the last two words with venom.

"Severus," Dumbledore said. He looked meaningfully at the chair next to Harry. "It would behoove you to join us."

The ensuing silence hammered at Harry's skull like a rain of curses. Then, just as he thought he heard the faint noise of Snape's approach, he stood abruptly.

"I think it would be the best for us all if Professor Snape conducted his meeting with you in private," said Harry, taking a step back.

Dumbledore's face suddenly looked tired, like that of an ancient man who had crawled out of his deathbed to do a final deed. "Harry—"

"I'll just be outside," said Harry, turning around without looking once in his father's direction and walking swiftly to the door with purposeful steps and an unmoving gaze—and finding the door locked. He tried turning the knob again, just to be sure, but it stayed firm and unmoving.

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Dumbledore. His voice was very small. "Please, will you sit?"

Harry lifted his fingers slowly and touched the blank slab of wood before him. He was reminded briefly of the rough bark of the scraping tree, and as he traced a trembling line down the swirling grain, he thought he could feel the phantom pain.

There was a sound, and Harry knew it was his father, stepping slowly up to the headmaster's desk and lowering himself into the chair.

"Harry? Please."

Harry took a shuddering breath. Part of him was willing him to go—the part that saw the act of staring at a door as childish and foolish, the part that whispered that it would soon be over anyway, and there was still a space of two wood bars and a slice of air between him and his father—

But that part floundered and died. "What do you want from me, sir?"

"Only for you to sit—"

"Sit?" Suddenly he was angry—beyond that. Furious. "You don't want me to sit. You want me to forgive." He turned around and the world was an expanse of empty white. "You want me to say that everything is fine now, and that I _love_ my _dear father_." He spat out the last few words, twisting them with disdain and derision until they were utterly unrecognizable. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Silence replied. He waited, without knowing that he was waiting, for his father to say something—anything—for even the lightest touch of that lazily scornful voice to cut him down and leave him a wretched ruin of misery; but only silence replied.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, and his voice was pained, "I understand that what you've gone through is—too terrible for me to truly comprehend, but please, please know that others have been wounded too, that others carry deep scars as well—"

"DO YOU THINK I DIDN'T KNOW THAT?" Harry shouted. "Do you think I'm still some wide-eyed kid you could trick with your long white beard and twinkling blue eyes?" He couldn't tell if he was facing the door or facing an elderly man with defeated blue eyes. "I'll let you know, sir, that frankly I don't care anymore. I am sick of forgiving, sick of being your good little boy with a heart full of love and kindness. I took on that part for two whole months, and all it gave me was—" He looked down at his hands, because he thought he could feel them aching again, but it was just his imagination. "—pain." He looked up and sneered. "Ask Neville to be your _protégé_, if you need to find someone else's life to ruin—his grandmother would be thrilled, you know. Now, if you'll excuse me—" He reached out, and tried the doorknob again. It turned, and he stumbled out, the door thudding shut behind him before he could recover his balance.

Harry stood for a moment, unmoving, as though he had emerged into the blazing sunlight from a dim room. Then he began his way down the stairs, holding tight to the rails and moving more jerkily than since his lessons in the ways of being blind.

"_Well_," he hissed belligerently, breaking the silence. "_Aren't you going to say anything?_"

He strode past the gargoyle and held up his hands; he walked into a wall, and haltingly felt his way down its length.

"_No_," said the snake, simply.

"_And why not_?" Harry could feel his jaw working, pushing the sibilant words out like poisonous vapors of a basilisk's breath. "_You always have something terribly insightful to say about my bad behavior_." The snake stayed silent._ "Go on! Say it!"_

"_I have nothing to say_."

Harry laughed harshly as he continued stumbling down the hall. "_You're a lying little serpent, aren't you? What if I commanded you to say something—as master to servant, as master to slave? Would you say anything then?_" His voice resonated through the empty corridor. "_Answer me! Why aren't you answering me?"_

Silence replied. He grabbed the snake's tail, roughly pulled it from around his neck, and flung it like a rag doll to the ground. "_ANSWER ME!"_

Then he stopped. There was someone close by. He whirled around and felt a sharp coldness at his fingertips that only moments later did he remember were the silver needles.

"Who's there?" he demanded to the misty whiteness, taking a step back.

"Harry?"

Harry relaxed, but he felt shaky and unbalanced, acutely aware of the nakedness of his bare neck. "Hermione," he said. "I thought it was—nevermind." He paused. The silence felt strained. "Is Draco with you?"

The familiar footsteps sounded. "Yes," said the Slytherin, but Harry frowned at the tone. There was something about it that he could remember having heard before. And they were silent again.

"Well, Hermione," said Harry, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, "you're… unusually quiet." He decided immediately that that wasn't a very good idea: though he didn't want this deafening stillness, he didn't want to be bombarded with questions either. "Is something the matter?"

Hermione was silent—again. Harry wished suddenly, fiercely, that he could see, that he could tell whether or not Hermione and Draco were exchanging a hesitant glance, that he could know if Hermione's face was touched by worry, or marred by dread and suspicion.

"Harry," said Hermione, and Harry felt his heart sink at her tone, "a few weeks ago, Neville told me something that I thought I'd never have to worry about."

Neville? thought Harry, his dread making way for disbelief and an anger that was laced with a sense of betrayal. _Neville_? Harry snorted. "I'm not sure about you, but I wouldn't exactly trust some fellow whose grandmother thinks I'm a blood traitor and wants her grandson to commit a glorified murder."

"It's not like that," said Hermione, sounding cross. "He told me something about what happened at the end of last year at the Ministry of Magic—and I hadn't believed it, or thought that it was—it was a fluke, or something, but after you returned and returned so _changed_—"

"Wait," Harry interrupted, "_what_ did he tell you? What lies did he say about me?" His mind went back, going feverishly over what had happened in the Department of Secrets—Hermione being knocked out, Sirius fighting, Sirius falling, the terrible, blinding grief—

"That you put the Cruciatus on my aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange," said Draco.

Harry's mind froze. He remembered everything in the flash, from the heat of his rage to the teetering sense of guilt and horrifying disbelief to the taunting leer on her unkempt face, but that was secondary: he heard too well the emotionless note of accusation in Draco's tone—almost as though Draco were addressing an utter stranger from behind bars.

"It didn't work," Harry said harshly, "did Neville tell you that? Did he tell you that Bellatrix said I _couldn't_ do it, because I didn't enjoy hurting people enough?"

"You asked her about it?" said Hermione, faintly, after a moment's pause.

"Oh, _yes_," Harry snarled, almost reeling from the sheer idiocy of her question. "Of _course_ I asked her about it—over a cup of tea, too, at the Fountain of Magical Brethren, where Voldemort happened to be waiting with his finest batch of crumpets." He was breathing deeply, panting, the sound of his breathing the only noise in the corridor. "Why aren't you saying anything?" he shouted. "Do you seriously believe—did you—"

Draco was moving, pulling Hermione along. "Let him alone a bit," he muttered, as Hermione dragged her feet in silent reluctance. "They get into rages, sometimes—Father would, every so often, I remember…"

Harry listened to them go. His mind was blank. He was almost unable to believe what he had just heard, for it was impossible—ludicrous—ridiculous— How could they think that he was secretly turning into some deranged Death Eater? How could they be so_ stupid?_ He was immobilized by disbelief and anger and utter helplessness: a tongue of hysterical laughter was running up his lungs and choking his throat, but it somehow it transformed into a maddened urge to scream—

But he did neither and merely slumped against the wall. It was strangely difficult to breathe. He slid down, rubbing his back painfully against the hard stone and leaned his head back. He heard the snake slowly slither to his side.

"_Excellent situation, this, isn't it_?" Harry muttered, almost slurring his words. "_They think I'm going to turn into a bloody Death Eater_. _A bloody Death Eater_." The snake said nothing, only coiled next to Harry's ankles and rubbed its head consolingly against Harry's leg. Harry, his blank eyes still staring off into space, convulsed with a brief jerk of laughter. "_You know, they've almost managed to convince _me_ that I'm about to be a bloody Death Eater_. _After all, I might be able to cast a proper Cruciatus now_."

"_Don't, arglwydd_," whispered the snake.

Harry inched down his hand and hesitantly touched the snake's head. Before he could say anything, the snake muttered, "_You needn't apologize, arglwydd_."

Harry's hand stilled. "_What makes you think I was going to_?"

"_You were, weren't you_?"

Harry was silent for a moment, his thumb now running back and forth over the snake's scaly head. "_Yes_," he said at last. "_I was going to_. _And I still am. I'm sorry, snake. I—really am. But not for everything_."

"_Not for everything_," the snake agreed. "_Never for everything_._ The world doesn't know how lucky it is to have you_."

Harry laughed. "_They can stink in their ignorance for all I care_," he sneered, but even he could hear the bitter note in it._ "Hatred is much easier to deal with than adoration. You haven't any great expectations to meet_."

"_They'll come around, I'm sure_," said the snake, sounding as though it couldn't possibly be otherwise. "_The girl isn't quite _that_ stupid_. _And the boy would be lost without you_."

"_Right_," muttered Harry. But he thought of the future, of the lost and lonely feeling that would come whenever Hermione or Draco moved away just like the rest of the whispering crowd, of the lessons with his father that he would have to endure rigidly and in solitude; and the pressure of his thumb against the snake's head increased until the snake nudged him in his calf. "_Right_," Harry muttered, forcing away some of the darkness and dread. "_They can wander with their faulty conclusions for as long as they want_." Harry got up, the snake slithering up his body as he did so. "_It doesn't matter to me_. _Voldemort still must die_."

He wondered dimly, at the back of his mind, how much of that he was really trying to believe.


	20. The Bitter Glass

_A/N: Once again, many thanks to Procyon Black for her excellent beta and the changes she suggested._

_A/N2: The Half-Blood Prince has stalked onto the scene, and so Prometheus Bound is officially AU and non-canon. Oh well. Carry on._

* * *

**Chapter 20: The Bitter Glass**

So Harry was quite miserable for the next few days.

Whenever he met Hermione, at meals or in the library or in the Common Room, they would pretend to be strangers, glancing away disinterestedly with the casual uncaring of the ignorant. Harry had felt at first irate (he could pretend to be indignantly and self-righteously silent, too), then bewildered (alone in the corridors, he felt like a ghost, wandering without truly being alive), then anxious, as though a rat were gnawing at his heart. The feelings seemed to spring anew more relentlessly every time he tried to suppress them with arguments of why it didn't matter, of why he shouldn't care at all. Harry hadn't anticipated playing this game of silence with Draco—in fact, he had planned to talk to Draco and convince the Slytherin that he really wasn't a dark wizard and he couldn't really cast the Cruciatus; but the look on Draco's face led him to wait for the next encounter, and then for the next encounter, and then it was too late.

The same sort of thing happened with Dumbledore—though, Harry thought guiltily, it might have been somewhat reversed. He was conscious of the headmaster's penetrating blue gaze at meals, and the few times he actually saw the expression on Dumbledore's face made him sick with sudden guilt. Perhaps as a response to that, and maybe to the presence of people in general, he ate breakfast and lunch very early, and dinner very late; and on Tuesday the following week, he realized that he could count the words he had spoken in English over the past few days on one hand.

But with Tuesday came Potions and Healing and Snape. All through Potions class, during which he worked like a zombie with the rest of his mind on a level of hyperawareness, and Healing, which was once again with Madam Pomfrey, he felt a maddening sense of restlessness, as though he were eagerly waiting for Snape to enter with a disdainful glance and slice open his chest with a slew of caustic remarks. Harry wondered morbidly if he was a masochist at heart, if what Vernon had done to him had left marks that went beyond even a change of mind and nature. Or was it part of his inheritance package? He hadn't cared to present the snake with this quandary; the reptile seemed much more concerned with the lack of puffskeins.

So Tuesday passed, as did the rest of the week, in the same restless fashion; but with Saturday came not Snape nor Hermione nor Draco, but Ron.

After a very early breakfast, during which Harry was alone in the Great Hall with only a few solitary Hufflepuffs, he went to the library to finish Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration assignment, which was an essay on Animagi through history. The library, too, was mostly empty, though Harry really only noticed that neither Hermione nor Draco were there. He settled at a table near the far back of the library, his parchment and quills rustling unnaturally loud in the stillness. The silence, which had beset him the first few days like a Dark curse that entangled him in a vast, lightless web of solitude, still struck him bewilderingly. It was, he admitted, rather depressing—though, he told himself again, scowling as he did so, it hardly mattered that Hermione wasn't sitting next to him, that her quiet whisper wasn't there to dust away the silence and the loneliness; all that mattered, he told himself firmly, irritably, was that he finished his task.

But he found it difficult to concentrate, and when he was halfway through one roll of parchment, he set down his quill and muttered to the snake, "_It all feels a bit pointless, somehow_."

The snake shook itself from its stupor. "_How so_?" it asked.

"_I really can't see how outlining the history of Animagi can help me defeat Voldemort_," Harry replied. "_Unless of course I wanted to bore him to death. But then I'd find Professor Binns_."

"_Some things don't have immediate applications_," said the snake in a knowing tone. "_And at any rate, you may want to become an Animagus, as that's highly useful, and learning a bit about the history_—"

Harry had stopped paying attention, for at that moment, Ron entered the library. Harry was on the verge of looking away and hoping that the redhead wouldn't notice him, but their gazes met across the many empty tables, and Ron froze. An unreadable look appeared on his face, one that seemed anything but pleasant to Harry.

"_It's your old friend, isn't it_?" said the snake.

"_Yes_," said Harry, lowering his head as Ron began making his way towards them. "_My old friend_."

Ron pulled out a chair and slumped into it, and even as Harry tensed, ready to spring away from any hint of danger, he found the movements achingly familiar. "So," said Ron, his lips twisting with hatred. "It's Potter."

"Hello, Weasley," Harry said coldly. The voice and the sneer on the redhead's face, however, seemed to belong to someone entirely different. "Did you need me for anything?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, I think I do," said Ron. He leaned forward, and Harry stiffened even more. The snake was hissing quietly—so quietly that only he could hear, but hissing menacingly all the same. "I know what you really are," Ron continued, his hot breath condensing on Harry's face. "You're a mole. You're not really Harry. You're an intruder, and imposter—the son of Snape."

A fleck of spittle flew out from Ron's mouth at the last words, landing on Harry's cheek. "Indeed," Harry drawled, wiping the spittle from his face.

"You think that you're a good actor, that just because you've tricked Dumbledore you can trick the rest of us," Ron continued in a low, quivering voice. Harry watched with a mixture of detachment and unease as the redhead began to froth slightly at the corners of his mouth. "But _I_ know who you are. You can't trick _me_."

"Really?"

"_Really_!" Ron snarled, lurching closer. Harry felt the coldness at his fingertips sharpen. "I know the truth, and I've told _everyone_. And even though they won't believe me now, they will in the end." Ron was breathing heavily, and a wild look was in his eyes. "Oh yes, in the end, they will." He settled back into his chair, repeating under his breath, almost as though he were unaware of doing so, almost like the whimpering of a beaten dog, "They will. They will. They will."

"I imagine so," Harry said quietly. The hostility and wariness he had felt just a moment ago had changed. So the general opinion of Ron's demagogic speeches seemed to have gone down, thought Harry, easily seeing Ron gesticulating wildly in the middle of the common room, with the other Gryffindors ignoring him irritably. Harry rubbed the tips of his fingers, easing way the last of the coldness of the silver thieves. Some part of him shuddered: would he have used them on Ron—upon what had once been his loyal friend, and was now this miserable, pitiful wreck? Pity: that was what he felt. They ached, he realized dimly. The tips of his fingers seemed to have been numbed by ice.

"You're right," Harry said in a brisk, hard voice. "I am not Harry Potter. I am an imposter. Harry Potter is dead."

Ron drew in a sharp breath. "You—_killed_ him? Did you kill him?" His hands clutched convulsively at the wand inside his robes. "I'll kill you if you killed him!"

"I didn't kill him," said Harry solemnly. "Do you know who killed him?"

Ron gave him a distrustful look. "You-Know-Who did," he said. Then, carefully, painstakingly pronouncing each syllable, he enunciated: "_Vol-de-mort_."

"Not even him," Harry said gravely. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Ron's eyes bristled with suspicion. "Well? Who did it?"

"It was you. All of you."

"Liar!" Ron snarled, slamming a hand onto the table. "I didn't kill him. _You_ did!"

Harry shook his head. "It was you, all of you," he said in slow, measured tones. "Not directly, no. But you let him die when he needed you most. You see, he began to die on his birthday." Ron was staring at him now, transfixed. "That was the day his uncle burned his books and wand and magical things. That was the day his uncle killed one of his first friends, his owl. That was the day his uncle locked him in his room and began to beat him slowly to death."

"You're lying," Ron muttered through clenched teeth, but his blue eyes were staring, and Harry looked back, fancying he could see something familiar at the very end of the tunnel.

"I'm not lying," Harry said simply. "This is how you killed Harry Potter. It wasn't a quick or painless death, either. It went on for weeks. At first, when his uncle chained him down and hurt him over and over, Harry Potter was strong. He told himself that his friends would rescue him. Even though he couldn't do anything himself, he was sure his friends could. He was sure they'd realize something was wrong and come to check. But he was mistaken. Dreadfully mistaken. For as the days passed, nobody came, and he was utterly, utterly alone. And when nobody came after he wished and hoped and prayed for days upon days and nights upon nights, when he realized that nobody would come at all—that was when he died."

Ron's eyes were wide and unblinking. Harry, meeting that gaze squarely, could almost imagine that this was the old Ron. He could almost imagine that he was telling this story about another person, a person he had met and become friends with and lost and grieved for. He could almost feel the warm fireplace in the common room and see the pile of Chocolate Frogs between them dwindling to nothing more than a few wrappers and discarded cards. Any moment now Ron would say something simple, something plain, but it would nevertheless ease the trouble in Harry's heart, and make him feel that the covers to the story he'd just told could be solemnly closed, and he could and return the sad, unfinished tale to a shelf high out of reach—

"You're _lying_," Ron spat. "You're a liar! _You_ killed him, not me! His uncle didn't kill him—you did! I know it because he wrote to us through the summer, saying that he was all right, that he just wanted to be alone. You're just trying to trick us, aren't you? But I can't be tricked. _I_ was his best friend."

"As you wish," Harry said stiffly. He picked up his quill. "If you would be so kind as to remove your presence—"

"I want you to stop tricking Hermione," Ron interrupted with a snarl.

"I'm not tricking her," Harry replied impatiently.

"You are! Do you know what she did this morning at breakfast?"

"No."

"She sat with _Malfoy_."

Harry felt a spike of irritation stab his heart. "So what? They're—friends now." But even as he spoke, admitted that he had felt unsettled that Tuesday morning several days ago when Hermione had marched away from Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil's whispers and over to the Slytherin table—to Draco Malfoy. Harry wondered if anything like that—a Gryffindor sitting openly with a Slytherin—had ever happened in the history of Hogwarts.

"You can't trick me," Ron hissed. "I know you want to make them all lovey-dovey, so Malfoy can kill her like you killed Harry."

Lovey-dovey? Harry thought with alarm and annoyance. "What are you talking about?" he snapped. "You ought to see Madam Pomfrey about the hallucinations you're having, Weasley. There's nothing lovey-dovey going on."

"I'll be watching you, _Potter_," Ron spat. "You've taken Harry, but I won't let you take Hermione!"

Harry sneered. "What'll stop anyone from taking _you_?"

"Are you threatening me?" Ron snarled, leaning forward menacingly.

"No," Harry said in a bored tone. "Just wondering."

Ron stood, his face twitching. "I'll be watching you, Potter," he hissed. Then he turned and stalked away.

"_Crazy_," Harry muttered in Parseltongue, as Ron stumbled over a chair and knocked into a table on his way out of the library. "_That brain did him more damage than I thought_."

"_So none of what he said is true_?"

Harry nearly broke his quill as he slapped it onto his parchment, splattering ink everywhere. "_Don't tell me you're believing all those lies like Draco and Hermione!_" he hissed, then quickly masked his face when the few others in the library turned to glance at him.

"_No, not the part that was untrue_," said the snake hastily. "_I meant—the part about your two friends_."

"_That's untrue as well_," Harry snarled back. He would finish the stupid essay later, he decided as he stuffed the parchment back into his bag.

"_They did seem rather close during meals, especially on Thursday_," said the snake in thoughtful tone.

Harry snorted as he stalked out of the library. "_How would you know? You didn't look_."

"_But _you_ did, arglwydd_," the snake said pointedly, "_and quite a few times, too_."

Harry opened his mouth but found it difficult to argue against that, because, he realized, it was true. On Thursday—he thought back, combing his mind for details—on Thursday he had skipped breakfast and had a very quick lunch in the kitchens; but at dinner he distinctly remembered thinking that Draco looked troubled and pale. Harry had managed to filch a copy of that day's _Daily Prophet_, but there was no mention of Death Eater attacks or of Lucius Malfoy (or any Malfoy for that matter) at all. The only thing that might've affected Draco was a report on how the investments by the richest families in Britain were in jeopardy due to the instability of the value of the Galleon, but Harry thought it unlikely.

But had they been lovey-dovey? Harry ran through every memory he could conjure, but now the grateful look Draco had given seemed deeper and more familiar than it should; and the smile Hermione had given in comfort seemed something more than consolation. _Had_ they been lovey-dovey? He felt split by simultaneous urges to find the two and observe them from shadows or to demand an explanation at once—

"_You tell me, snake_," Harry said, pacing back and forth in the corridor. "_Had they been—well, l-l_—" The words came strangely in Parseltongue, so he switched to English. "Lovey-dovey?"

The snake shifted itself daintily. "_What exactly would constitute that condition_?" it asked in a self-important voice.

Harry threw his hands up in the air. "I don't know," he muttered, staring at the ground. "Maybe they—maybe they stare at each other more than usual, like a pair of cows?"

"_Well, they did stare a lot_," said the snake in a careful voice.

"You don't know, do you?" Harry said irritably. "If only—"

If only Ron were here, he completed in his head, but it couldn't be so—wouldn't ever be so. Ron was… was… Harry crossed his arms and hunched inwards as memories of what he had told Ron and Ron's subsequent reaction flooded into his mind, struggling with thoughts of Draco and Hermione. He had—he didn't know why he had said what he had said. Pity? Revenge? He wondered how Hermione would have reacted (he didn't think he'd ever tell it to Draco); she would be effusive with compassion, that was for sure, but—would she understand? would she be able to do what Ron had been able to do, once upon a time, a long time ago? would she—

"Agh!" he muttered, as the image of Hermione whispering to Draco came up again. "They're—it doesn't _matter_ if they're lovey-dovey, it—doesn't—matter!"

"_Doesn't it_?"said the snake.

Harry paused. "_You said it didn't_," he hissed. "_You told me it didn't. You said that there would never be a resolution, that I was the heir of Slytherin and the child of the Prophecy, and thus I must carry out the deeds of my line and my heritage_."

"_Yes, that I did, but I never said that you had to suppress any or all feelings and turn yourself into a weapon!"_

"_A weapon_," Harry repeated, tasting the word as he said it as though he had never said it before. It sent a chill tingling down his spine. "_Why shouldn't I turn myself into a weapon? Why shouldn't I do it?"_ An unfeeling dagger, he thought: no more pain, no anger, no hurt, no grief—nor happiness or love, that was true, but those two were overrated, especially in the face of darkness. "_I'd kill Voldemort that way, wouldn't I_?"

"_Perhaps_," the snake conceded, "_but it's not a matter of whether or not it would defeat Voldemort; it's a matter of whether or not it is possible for you_." The snake's voice became insistent. "_You can't be a weapon, arglwydd—you can not_. _If you had been born a different person, then perhaps it might be so_… _but you can never be a weapon, just as you can never accept that there is no resolution_."

The words stung. "_But I can't otherwise_," said Harry, as he ran a hand distractedly over the snake's length. "_What choice have you let me? I_—"

"_I don't blame you, arglwydd_," the snake added quickly, apologetically. "_I blame myself too, for I have lived many more lives than you, and should know more of that thing which you call the human heart. But you are so hurt that you can't see beyond what despair would require_."

Harry had the ridiculous urge to reply: of course I can't see, I'm blind, don't you know? But Harry knew this had nothing to do with the green orbs within his head that moved with as much purpose as two feverish stars. This was something else—something that he had not thought about, so caught up by the brute pain of his hurt or the keen tenderness of his impossible hope. Perhaps the snake was right, he thought. Perhaps he had been so used to the crumbling of hope that he had taken the only defense he could assemble: the miserable defense of despair and finality. What was it that the snake had said? that he could not see beyond what despair would require…?

"_Require_," Harry breathed. "_Maybe—_" He stopped. "_Do you know the Room of Requirement_?"

The snake hesitated. "_Vaguely_," it said with a faintly indignant tone. "_I have heard of it before_."

"_It is a Room that gives you what you really need at the moment, whether it be chamber pots or a room for practice with Defense Against the Dark Arts_," said Harry, hurrying to the corridor where the Room was located.

"_Ah, I see_," said the snake in a wise voice. "_So you want it to reveal to you, through the castle's enchantments, what you really require for defeating Voldemort?"_

Harry nodded. "_Yes, but it might not work, of course. Usually it needs something more specific_."

"_Is it not a part of the castle's enchantments_?"

"_Yes_," Harry replied. They were nearing the corridor where the Room was located, and Harry began to wonder what he might find. A statue of Slytherin to mean the gifts he received? A piece of parchment upon which were written two words: _Avada Kedavra_?

"_You may not know, but the castle can do its own thinking_," said the snake. "_You are its last heir, so I imagine it would obey your commands more than any other's_."

"_Maybe_."

"_But I think it will show you_," said the snake with a tone of finality in its voice. "_It is you, arglwydd, who must defeat Voldemort._"

"_So I'll see myself_?" said Harry doubtfully as he slowed to a stop.

"_Yes, perhaps as a mirror or a portrait_," the snake replied. "_So are we there_?"

"_Nearly_," Harry said. They were in a corridor now, and the door was not there. "_Now I've got to pace and think_," Harry explained. What did he need, what did he require?—obviously a way to defeat Voldemort. Any way? He thought of the words _Avada Kedavra_ (they would be written in green, like the letters of Tom Riddle's name); what if, though, he found a heavy tome of Dark Arts, turned to a page that awakened something from the well of knowledge gifted to him by Salazar Slytherin—something that was of an unutterably dark nature, something more terrible by far than the Unforgivables? And a new thought entered his mind: what if the room was blank? what if there was no conceivable way for him to defeat Voldemort…?

As if on cue, the door appeared.

"_Go on_," said the snake when Harry hesitated. "_It's there, the door_."

"_Right_," Harry managed. He stepped forward, turned the knob, and entered.

"_It's empty_," said the snake. "_The room is empty_."

"_Yes, it is_," Harry replied, feeling his mouth go dry. The room indeed was empty: nothing more than bare walls, bare ceilings, bare floors, covered with the faceless stones of unadorned Hogwarts walls. So is there no way? thought Harry despairingly. No way at all for me to defeat him? no way at all…?

But he turned around, and stopped. "_A mirror, as you said_—" he began, feeling a measure of relief flooding into his heart, but he broke off and stared fixedly at the surface.

"_Yes, it's a mirror_," said the snake. There was no response. "_Arglwydd_?"

"_Snake_—" Harry began brokenly. "_Can you—can't you see? Don't you see?_"

"_What? what? See what?_"

Harry took a shuddering breath. "_What do you see, snake_?"

"_You, arglwydd_," said the snake in a bewildered tone. "_You, with me wrapped around your neck, and you looking like death warmed over_."

"_No_," Harry whispered. "_No_._ I look—happy_." He turned his gaze upwards to the mirror's frame. "_I thought so_," he muttered.

"_What_?"

"_This is one of Dumbledore's inventions, the Mirror of Erised_," Harry replied. "_It shows your heart's greatest desire. But perhaps it works only on humans, and not on snakes_…"

"_I see only what's there_," the snake said, returning to stare at the surface. "_What do you see_? _You need it to defeat Voldemort_."

"_I see_—" Harry broke off. The ground seemed to have been knocked from his feet, and he was falling, falling through air from a dizzying height, with white clouds of blindness screaming past his ears. "_There's you around my neck_," he said, "_and Hermione and Draco and—my father beside me_. _We're standing in this room, alone_." He took a deep breath. "_We're_… _smiling_." He thought wonderingly: that's what my father looks like when he smiles. That's what it looks like. That's what _I_ look like. Harry reached out a hand, and the person in the mirror reached out a matching, fine-fingered hand. I look like my father, Harry thought, and met the finger of his grinning mirror image.

"_Then you need this to win against Voldemort_," the snake said. Its voice was slow and grave.

"_So the castle thinks_," Harry replied in a quiet voice. His mirror image had turned away to smile at Hermione, who had nudged closer and laid her head on his shoulder. Harry shivered and felt a strange, gnawing hunger. He watched, fascinated, as Hermione gazed up to him and he returned the gaze with that look he had seen only once—in the photo of his mother, Lily, and her love, James: the photo that now was ashes in the wind. Hermione stepped onto her tip-toes and whispered something in his ear, and he laughed.

So this is my heart's desire, thought Harry, feeling thunderstruck yet strangely unsurprised. This. The sight of Hermione's tender eyes, the contented look on Draco's face, and the love and joy on Snape's sent a tendril of aching curling in his throat, and he closed his blind eyes, though the images still remained.

It will never happen, he thought with infinite sadness. These dreams will never come true. He remembered Snape's voice, hesitant in a heart-wrenching way, asking him if he would like to live in the dungeons, and he remembered how he had rejected the offer, as furiously and categorically as Snape had rejected him that day so long ago. He knew why he had done it, could still feel echoes of that untamable anger and hurt and rage, but now the world was drabbed in hues of sorrow and regret. There's nothing more terrible in the world than regret, he thought. Someone must have told him that, sometimes, somewhere; and it is true, he thought: sorrow and rage and hurt were eased by the blanket of madness, hemmed in by the unbearable weight of the moment, but regret was a pitiless thing, stretching down the empty halls of time, as a lucid as a mirror staring him in the face. And I do regret, thought Harry, a hammering at the back of his eyes. I regret; how I regret—

"I have to go," Harry said hoarsely, in English.

"_Where_?"

"Away from this," said Harry, wrenching his gaze from the mirror. "There is no use wasting my life staring at dreams and illusions," he said coldly as he opened the door, "especially dreams and illusions that will never come true—"

He left the room and walked right into Hermione.

"There you are!" Hermione exclaimed, as Harry rubbed his chin where it had smacked into her forehead. "I was looking everywhere for you."

"Really?" said Harry, feeling again as though the ground had been ripped from his feet.

"Yes," said Hermione, who was cupping her forehead where it had run into Harry's jaw. "You weren't in the library, or your dormitory, or that special room with the funny portrait, or wandering about the dungeons"—Harry wondered, at that point, why she thought he'd be wandering about the dungeons—"and I hoped you hadn't gone back to the Chamber of Secrets. But you're here. What were you doing?"

"I—was—" His mind careened through a myriad of lies, but in the end he said, "I was thinking for the Room to tell me what I needed in order to defeat Voldemort."

"Oh," said Hermione in a surprised voice. She continued, quietly, "Did it… show you anything?"

"It did, but I'll tell you later." He added, "I promise."

Hermione gave him a somewhat curious look, but nodded. "All right. Anyway, I was looking everywhere for you because—well, because of many things, but right now because Dobby is missing."

"Dobby?" said Harry, puzzled. "Don't tell me it's some spew thing…"

"Don't worry, it's not S.P.E.W.," Hermione said dryly as she began walking down the corridor. Harry followed. "It's that we need Dobby to spy for us."

"Spy?"

"Yes, spy. Draco should be the one telling you this, but…"

"Is it his idea?" Harry asked, feeling, against his will, a spark of irritation.

"No, it's mine, actually," Hermione replied, and Harry thought he heard—though it might only have been his imagination—a coolness in her voice. "He received an… ultimatum from his father."

"Ultimatum?" Harry echoed, his heart quickening. "From Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yes," said Hermione grimly. They were nearing the kitchens now. "He got it on Thursday."

Thursday— A bolt of realization flashed through Harry's head. So _that's_ why Draco and Hermione had been so… close on Thursday. He felt a relief drain into his heart, and then a gnawing guilt: here he was, feeling glad that Draco had received an ultimatum from his father, just so that there hadn't been anything lovey-dovey going on. And why hadn't they told him? He decided not to ask now; he thought he might know the answer, and it gave him no comfort.

"What did it say?"

Hermione reached up and tickled a pear. "Basically, it told Draco to return to the allegiances of his family, or face the consequences that I imagine would be rather dire."

"So it's a threat," said Harry, stepping over the threshold.

"Yes, basically," Hermione agreed. "We thought—or I thought, really—that we might get Dobby to go back to Malfoy manor to spy for us, to see exactly what that threat entailed." She stopped. "So, will you call for Dobby?"

Harry stepped forward. The place, as usual, was swarming with house-elves, all running about in their tea cosies and giving the two humans occasional, expressionless glances. "Dobby?" Harry called. He half-expected a pop and the elf, wearing his tower of hats, to appear and bow; but nothing happened. "Dobby!"

Hermione sighed. "If he's not responding to you, he can't be here, can he?"

"No," Harry said reluctantly. "I don't suppose so. Have you asked Winky?"

"I thought of that, but no," said Hermione.

"Winky!" Harry called, running his eyes across the teeming mass of bustling house-elves. "Winky!"

"Winky is here, sir," said a squeaky voice at Harry's feet.

"How are you, Winky?" Hermione asked in a polite tone.

"Winky is busy, Miss," the house-elf replied, giving Hermione a rather cautious look. She turned to address Harry. "Is young Master and his Miss wanting something from Winky?"

Harry felt a slight flush at the mention of Hermione as his Missy, but quickly dissipated the thought. "Yes—have you seen Dobby?"

"Not since many days ago," Winky replied. "A man came and asked for him, and Dobby left and he is not back. Maybe," said Winky in a dark tone, "he not be faithful to his young Master and find another one. Winky is faithful to her master, oh yes!" she said stoutly.

"Right," Harry said, cutting the house-elf short. "What was the man like?"

"He is a Professor," said Winky. "He is the one who teaches the young Master about spells to make dark things go away."

"Cinna," Hermione said immediately. "Was it Professor Cinna?"

Winky nodded, her ears flapping about her face like a wrinkled elephant's.

"Thank you, Winky," said Harry, and the house-elf left with a last, deferent bow. "So Cinna took Dobby," Harry said slowly, turning to face Hermione.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Harry said, leading the way out of the kitchens. "I… don't quite like Cinna."

"He's a good teacher," Hermione said defensively.

"He is," Harry agreed, holding the portrait open so that Hermione could step through. "But he was—he had once done something terrible to my father, I think."

Harry walked on, his hands at his side, but from the edge of his vision he saw Hermione glance at him. He couldn't see the expression on her face, but her next words were spoken softly: "Something terrible?"

"Something terrible, but I don't know what it was," said Harry. "I—he tenses up whenever Cinna is around, gets nervous in a way I've never seen in any other situation, the way"—he began to falter—"I do when… he's around me. But Cinna knows it and he—_enjoys_ it almost. And—I don't think I've told you about the Order meeting?"

"You said you couldn't tell me."

"That was only because Draco was there, and I wasn't sure yet about him." He paused. "I'm not sure now, either, not with the ultimatum…"

"I don't think Draco will return to his father," Hermione said firmly. "I'm almost sure of it."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. He wondered if he would tell her about what he had seen Draco write, about the feelings Draco had towards his father, who now presented him with a cold ultimatum. He wondered if, perhaps, she knew already from Draco himself. He said. "But let's not speak here."

"Your room, then? The one with the portrait."

"Yes," said Harry, leading the way. As they walked, he thought that there might be a spell upon the room and the area surrounding it preventing others from coming, for the number of students he met diminished steadily until they were alone, walking down the hallway with the tapestry of the scraping tree.

"I planned to tell you about the Order meeting when Draco wasn't around," Harry said as he shut the door, "but I never got around to it."

Hermione seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but she stopped herself and said, merely, "Yes."

"But Cinna came with a bloody sack that contained Peter Pettigrew's head."

"_What_?"

He found himself telling her all about the meeting, how Dumbledore had guessed that the kidnappings were for a terrible ritual Voldemort was planning, how Caius Cinna had entered with Pettigrew's head in a bag, how Cinna had answered Dumbledore's queries in his mock-innocent, sneering manner. Harry found that he could stare openly at Hermione while she talked, for she was looking attentively at his sightless eyes, not noticing that the snake was gazing at her face.

He ended with telling Hermione about what Mrs. Weasley had said about Ron.

"That's terrible," Hermione said in a small voice. "I was sure Ron couldn't have just changed like that, but I never knew…" She lowered her eyes, and they met the snake's intent stare. Then she frowned, seemingly peering closer at the snake's eyes, and Harry quickly looked away, the snake moving its head with his.

"Is that why you let Ron hit you?"

"Yes," Harry replied, looking up at the portrait on the wall. "I'm not…" He forced his gaze back to hers, and this time, she was staring directly at the snake's eyes and into his mind. "I'm sorry that I got mad at you all the time. I'm sorry I never told you anything when you asked about me and S—my father. I—"

"It's okay," Hermione murmured. "I understand, and really, _I_ should be—"

"Don't say it," Harry said, smiling slightly, and Hermione, glancing up at his face to see his expression, returned the smile. "But it's hard," Harry went on, sobering. "I don't really understand it. I don't understand anything at all."

"I'm sorry."

Harry quirked his lips. "Didn't I tell you not to say it?"

"Well, you can say it," Hermione said, pretending to be indignant. "Why can't I?"

"Because I'm the one who behaved badly and you didn't."

"No, because you think you have to carry the world on your shoulders and you don't."

Harry paused before he said his next words. "You heard the Prophecy, you know I—"

"Yes, but even if you're going to follow that Prophecy to the letter, it doesn't mean you must be alone." Her eyes flickered to the expression on his face, and then she moved closer, her gaze intent. "It doesn't mean you have to be alone, Harry, without friends."

Harry felt torn between looking away and falling into her gaze. "Hermione, I… do you think I am a—Dark Wizard?"

"No, no—that's another thing, I shouldn't have even thought it. I was just too angry and frustrated and confused—"

"It doesn't matter," Harry said soothingly, though his heart was singing inside.

"But even if you did decide to do Dark Arts, I would still—I wouldn't condemn you, because I _know_ you." She fixed him with her gaze again. "If you ever decided to do them, it would be for the good of the world. You would—you would throw yourself off the top of the Astronomy Tower if that could save the world, though a year ago you'd have done it with a lot more complaining."

Harry chuckled. She was right. "I only wish it were so easy, then everything would be so much simpler…"

"Don't even think about it," she snapped with more vehemence than he'd expected. "Don't you even dare think of doing something like that—"

"I was only joking!" Harry said, laughing. "I—" He stopped, listening attentively. "Someone's coming."

The doorknob turned moments after Harry recognized the footsteps, and then the door pushed open to reveal Draco, looking more bedraggled and weary than Harry had ever seen him.

"You're here," he said. "Both of you." He turned to Harry. "So you've decided to speak to us," he said coolly.

"_I've_ decided? I thought _you_—"

"Yes," Hermione interrupted loudly. "We tried looking for Dobby, Draco, but we couldn't find him—Professor Cinna took him, for some reason, and I told Harry about the… letter you received from your father."

Draco said nothing in reply as he shut the door and slumped into the chair. That was the first place I really met him, Harry thought. Me in the portrait, and him sitting in that same chair.

"Would you like to read it?" Draco said, suddenly addressing Harry.

"I would," Harry said, and Draco took a piece of folded parchment from inside his robes and handed it to Harry. Harry unfolded it. The words were written in an ornate style in the rusty brown color of dried blood.

"'_Redeem yourself your trespasses_,'" Harry read, "'_or pay it in blood on the next full moon_.' Next full moon?" He stopped. There was something about the next full moon that he knew was of deadly importance—but he couldn't remember—

"It could mean that werewolves are involved," Hermione said when she thought Harry had finished, "but there are many rituals that can be done on the night of the full moon that it doesn't necessarily have to—"

"Ritual!" Harry exclaimed. "That's—" He smacked his forehead. "I forgot—I cannot _believe_ I forgot." He glanced up; Draco and Hermione were looking at him as though he were in need of a visit to St. Mungo's. "When is the next full moon?"

"Tonight," Draco answered.

"_Tonight_?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "Why?"

"Remember the kidnappings that were going to be used in a bloody ritual?" Harry said grimly. "It's taking place tonight. And the Order is going to try to stop them."

Hermione's eyes went very wide, but Draco asked sharply, "The Order of the Phoenix?"

Harry nodded.

"Father mentioned them," Draco mused, "but that would mean that… would mean…" He paled. "But he wouldn't," he said, voice like broken glass. "Not to me, he wouldn't." When he glanced up at Harry, his eyes looked haunted.

"Well, the ritual will probably not take place anywhere around Hogwarts," Hermione said confidently. "All you have to do is make sure you stay in the castle. Then you'll be safe."

Draco nodded, but he didn't seem to have heard anything. Harry watched anxiously, sympathetically. It was… nearly impossible to imagine how shattered he'd feel if his father decided to sacrifice him in a terrible ritual for someone else.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly.

Draco shook himself out of his reverie. "There is nothing for you to be sorry for," he said stiffly, with a cold, defiant arrogance. "The choice was mine and mine alone. But you had better find a way to kill Voldemort, Harry Potter." He narrowed his eyes in a glare. "You'd better, and soon."

Harry nodded wordlessly, but he felt a fierce flood of compassion swelling in his heart. "Just stay safe tonight," Harry said. "But I promise I'll find a way, Draco." I already have, he thought, remembering the Mirror of Erised. He saw, again, Draco and Hermione standing close to him, side by side, and he felt a rush of contentment and affection, filling him with a happiness that ached. "And I promise—"

"Don't make him promise stupid things, like getting himself killed," Hermione said crossly. "I wish it were just as easy making him promise to stay safe." She looked at him in a querying fashion.

"Hermione—"

"I knew it," she said and grinned, as though she had successfully played a joke on him. But Harry saw the worry behind the smile.

"What if I promise not to take any unnecessary risks?"

"Unnecessary is a very subjective word," Draco observed.

"I have good judgment," Harry said in a mock-offended tone.

"Right," Hermione snorted, "Good judgment, right." She looked as though she were going to launch into a long rant about Harry's far-from-perfect judgment, but Harry forestalled her.

"Anyway," he said loudly, "I'll be going to go see Professor Dumbledore and talk to him about this." He gave a questioning look to Draco, but Draco just nodded. "Maybe you could stay in the Room of Requirement tonight, and turn it into an unbreachable fortress, or something."

Draco looked puzzled. "The Room of what?"

"I'll explain," Hermione said briskly. "You know what it is anyway. And—Harry?"

Harry stopped, one hand on the doorknob. He turned. There was something in her voice that filled his heart with hope. "Yeah?"

Hermione shook her head, as though dismissing a ridiculous notion. "Never mind," she said, "I'm trying not to nag you, so…" She smiled. "I'll see you later."

Harry did his best to return the smile casually, and left.

qpqpqp

"Ah, Harry! I had wished you'd come, but I hadn't dared to hope," said Dumbledore in a tone so genuinely cheerful that Harry immediately felt a stab of guilt. "Some tea and biscuits? These are Professor McGonagall's favorites, you know."

"No, thank you, sir," Harry said. He couldn't help glancing at the spot where Pettigrew's head had lain on Dumbledore's desk; once more, a clutter of objects obscured the area, but he thought he could still see the stain.

"Then, may I ask, what brings you to come visit me?"

"Sir," said Harry, picking his words carefully, "the operation is tonight, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Dumbledore replied with his same easy tone, though it was a shade graver

"Draco Malfoy received a threat from his father. It said that unless Draco returned to his previous ways, he would have to pay for his trespasses at the next full moon." He paused. "Tonight."

"So you are asking for sanctuary on Draco Malfoy's behalf?"

"Yes," said Harry. "I thought about letting him use the Room of Requirement and turning it into an undetectable fortress…"

"An excellent idea," said Dumbledore, nodding his head. "I would strongly encourage Mr. Malfoy to do just that, and begin well before dusk, as well." He paused. "But it is troubling… This letter from Malfoy senior strongly implies that Voldemort's forces are planning an attack tonight, just as they must be guarding their master while he completes his ritual."

Harry shrugged uneasily. He hadn't thought of that. "Perhaps one of them is a ruse?" he suggested.

"Certainly a possibility, yes," Dumbledore mused. "The ritual tonight cannot be a ruse—we have gathered too much evidence for it. Perhaps Voldemort is planning a two-pronged attack tonight, but in that case, he would have to be confident that he would succeed on both fronts. Voldemort does not like taking unnecessary risks or damages."

For a moment, Dumbledore seemed lost in thought. "What must I do?" Harry asked.

"You must stay in your dormitory and pretend to be asleep," Dumbledore said sternly. "This castle has layers upon layers of ancient spells of defense. They will not fall, even if Voldemort himself comes knocking on our door. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy's threat to his son was an empty one, one aimed more at Draco's heart and mind than his actual body."

Harry nodded. "We wanted Dobby to go to Malfoy manor and spy, but…" He held the headmaster's gaze. "Professor Cinna took Dobby."

"Took?" Dumbledore said, frowning. "What do you mean by took?"

"The house-elves don't know where Dobby is, but they saw him being taken away by Professor Cinna," Harry said. Dumbledore's frown remained and he sat back, seemingly deep in thought. "Professor, who _is_ Caius Cinna?"

"_Who_ is Caius Cinna? What a question to ask!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "You cannot expect that I know him through and through; in fact, even to me he is very—enigmatic, shall we say. What little I do know of him, there is not much that is for me to tell you."

"But will you tell me?" Harry insisted. He remembered that they had had a conversation like this before, and Dumbledore had told him nothing. But this time… this time, perhaps…

Dumbledore began after a pause. "I first met Caius Cinna in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was my first class of my first year at Hogwarts, yet this Caius Cinna could already manage a Patronus charm."

"_Really_?" Harry gaped. A first-year managing a Patronus charm? It was beyond incredible, certainly unbelievable.

"Yes," Dumbledore said gravely. "Caius Cinna was an extraordinarily gifted wizard. But he was a Slytherin, and he saw me, a Gryffindor, as his greatest threat. So things between the two of us were never quite as smooth as, say, the relationship between you and your friend Mr. Weasley—in your previous years, of course."

It was probably more like the relationship between Ron and me in the past few weeks, thought Harry.

"One day in our fifth year, it reached Caius Cinna's ears that I was unbeatable in gobstones. This, after Slytherin lost to Gryffindor in a rather crucial Quidditch game (Caius was a Seeker, and I was a Keeper, and though Caius got the Snitch practically every time, Gryffindor still managed to score higher), prompted him to challenge me to a gobstone duel."

"A—gobstone duel?"

"Yes. And I accepted. Caius Cinna insisted that we forfeit items as the terms of our duel, and I put up my three beloved boxes of Dallyday Delights. We played, and I won (no one has yet managed to beat me in gobstones, except for Eileen Prince, a very intelligent girl), and then I discovered that he had forfeited his soul."

"His _soul_? He put up his soul in a _gobstone_ duel?"

"Yes, he did," Dumbledore said sadly. "So by the time he had entered his sixth year, he had changed so that he was hardly recognizable. He became withdrawn, bitter, still brilliant, still fiercely arrogant—but now he treated me like his master."

"But—wait, so you have his soul in your possession? Like, locked in a box somewhere in your desk?"

"Ah, therein lies the mystery," said Dumbledore. "If I truly am in possession of his soul, then I have no idea how I possess it. Souls can, indeed, be ripped from the body and harbored in another object, though it requires magic of the most deadly sort, but none of that ever happened. It is my theory that he—Caius Cinna—believed that he had forfeited his soul, and everything that occurred afterwards was a result of that belief."

"But wouldn't he have discovered that you didn't actually… own his soul?"

"With someone who believed in the limits of his own powers, yes, but Caius Cinna was different. Perhaps he believed that he had the power to pluck his soul from his body and give it to me. Soul magic, after all, is the deepest and most difficult magic to master."

"So he's—deluded," said Harry.

"You could say that," Dumbledore mused. "Deluded." He sighed. "No matter what I told him afterwards, Caius refused to believe that he still possessed his own soul. And so, in my opinion, he believes it still, even to this very day."

Harry nodded. "So…" he said carefully, when Dumbledore looked about finished, "what did he do during the first war against Voldemort?"

"He disappeared soon after he graduated from Hogwarts, and I did not hear of him or from him for a long time," Dumbledore went on, though he sounded just as careful in picking his words as Harry had. "I thought, perhaps, that he had somehow willed himself to die. But he showed himself many years later when Grindelwald had reached the peak of his power."

"Grindelwald?" said Harry. "Who's—oh, I remember now. It said on the Chocolate Frog card that you defeated the dark wizard Grindelwald."

"Yes," said Dumbledore, nodding. "So I was not too surprised when Voldemort reached the peak of his powers and Caius Cinna appeared, offering me his services."

"Oh," Harry said, thinking. "Why would he appear only when there were really powerful Dark Lords about?"

"I cannot say," Dumbledore said, shrugging. "Perhaps he appears to aid me." Unlikely, thought Harry. "Or perhaps he appears to await my death."

That's more likely, Harry thought with a flash of alarm. But— "Then why doesn't he join Voldemort?" Harry asked. "Why doesn't he ever try directly to harm you? He'd get—er, well, wouldn't he believe that he'd get his soul back?"

"Once again, I cannot say, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I cannot tell what kind of mad world he has constructed for himself, what rules he himself plays in his attempt to satisfy his own arrogance, his image of his self. I can only say that every time Caius has had an opportunity to harm me, he has bypassed it, and every time he has had an opportunity to aid me, he has taken it. Therefore, I trust him, despite the unexplainable facets of his character and the cruelty of his nature."

The cruelty of his nature…

"Does that answer your question, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

"Almost," Harry said. "Professor"—he nearly broke his gaze with the headmaster, and suddenly his mouth felt dry—"what did he do to my father?"

"That, I'm afraid is not mine to tell," Dumbledore said in a solemn but apologetic tone. "It is true, however, that your father was greatly injured—greatly wronged—under Caius Cinna's treatment. For that I have only the deepest regret."

Harry nodded. He had guessed that, expected that, and almost known that; and now it was confirmed. And regret… He knew regret, and knew that Dumbledore's had to be as deep as his.

"There is something that I would like to show you, Harry," said Dumbledore as he opened a drawer at the bottom of his desk. He reached inside with both hands and took out an object Harry knew all too well: a Pensieve.

"What will I see?" Harry asked, glancing up at Dumbledore's eyes.

"A memory of your father."

Harry leaned forward slightly. "May I?" he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the headmaster.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, and Harry's vision swirled with hues of grey and white as the world vanished and Harry thought that he was falling, tumbling past fragments of memories until he landed in the same office he had left. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, reading a piece of parchment with a frown. There was no sign of Snape.

Then there was a sharp rapping on the door. "Come in," Dumbledore called, putting away the parchment and pushing the half-moon spectacles further up his long, crooked nose.

Harry backed away involuntarily as the door swung open and Snape appeared, one hand clutching the doorway, the other hand clenched in a fist at his side. When was this? Harry wondered with concern, for he could not remember having seen so stricken a look on anyone's face before. Was this right after that terrible thing Cinna had done so many years ago? Yet his father looked, if anything, older than ever, with more wrinkles and shadows than before.

"Severus!" Dumbledore exclaimed, standing up and walking swiftly to the other man. "Come, sit down, what is the matter?"

"Nothing," Snape said harshly, stalking to the chair and slumping into it. He hunched his shoulders and stared into emptiness like a broken man.

Dumbledore sat back down at his desk and waved his wand. A steaming kettle appeared, along with a cup and a platter of biscuits. Dumbledore tilted his wand, and the kettle poured into the cup by itself. "Have some tea, Severus," the headmaster said in a soothing voice. "Go on, have some."

Snape extended a hand from where he had crossed his arms protectively over his chest, and Harry saw that the pale fine-fingered hand was trembling.

"Is it Harry?" Dumbledore asked in a quiet voice.

Me? thought Harry, watching his father turn his head away, the greasy hair falling curtain-like over half his face. "It's nothing," Snape said again in that harsh, unfamiliar voice. His fingers moved restlessly as they clutched the cup of tea.

"Have some biscuits, Severus," Dumbledore said. "They're Minerva's favorites."

Snape made no response for a long while before giving the headmaster a withering glare.

"Is it Harry?" Dumbledore asked again.

This time, Snape snarled in response, "What else could it be? Of course it's that—" He stopped, his jaw working as he clenched his teeth. "Of course it's him," Snape ended, and Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Well, did he accept your offer to live in the dungeons?" Dumbledore asked.

"No," Snape replied with an almost vindictive sneer.

Harry felt a chill run through his body: he knew, now, when this had occurred, and what was to come next. Why had Dumbledore chosen to show him this? Why this, of all things? He looked with dread upon the puzzled expression on Dumbledore's face, as the headmaster leaned forward and questioned, "Why? What did he say?"

Snape took a deep, shuddering breath. "He did not go into raptures of joy as you had predicted, Albus. Instead, he said that my mere presence—pained him."

Dumbledore leaned back, his face blank with shock. "But he can't have meant that, Severus!"

Snape chuckled humorlessly. "Not meant that? Why, he _screamed_ it aloud, for everyone to hear, as though I had put him under the Cruciatus."

Dumbledore frowned, a look of intense concentration on his face. "No," he said, shaking his head. "There had to have been more to it than that. What else did he say, Severus? He must've said more."

To Harry's surprise and horror, Snape's face suddenly contorted, and he covered it with a shaking hand.

"Severus!" Dumbledore said, the shock in his voice mirroring that in Harry's heart. But immediately afterwards, the headmaster reach out his lined and wrinkled hands and clasped them over the other man's. "Now, now," Dumbledore murmured soothingly, "everything will be all right, it will all work out in the end, it will all be fine…"

"He said that whenever he is near me, he hears me saying no, that I am ashamed of him, that I hate him, that he's not worth shit in my eyes," said Snape in a voice that was no more than a tremulous hiss, but still it was as merciless as a sinner's penance. "He said that it hurt—that I—hurt him, that he could hear me saying those—things, every time I was near."

A look of stricken realization washed over Dumbledore's face. Then, the look crumpled, and all that was left was sorrow as immense and ageless as the sea. Dumbledore shook his head. "Then you must tell him the truth, Severus, what you truly feel. You must tell him that you don't hate him, that you're proud of him, that he's worth the world in your eyes."

"Didn't you _hear_ what he said?" Snape hissed, glaring up with a look of unsettling hatred. "Didn't you _hear_? He— I hurt him, Albus, I hurt him! Whenever he's around me, whenever I'm near him!" His hands clutched the edges of the desk. "Don't make me go back to him, Albus, don't make me go back," Snape whispered. "I don't deserve him. And he doesn't deserve me."

The world swirled. Colors blurred, lines vanished, and after the sensation of falling, Harry found himself leaning over the Pensieve, an aching feeling in his throat, like that of suppressed tears.

"He's wrong," Harry croaked, looking up at the headmaster. He wondered how much time had past; it felt like an eternity, a lifetime. "He's wrong. I— He—"

"Sometimes, we show hate to the ones we love because we love them so," Dumbledore said gently, and Harry saw again that immense and boundless sorrow, "because we are too scared of how much we love them, of how strong this wild and beautiful thing love is, how it has suddenly become our entire world."

Harry shook his head. His heartbeat was still too fast, his breathing still unsettled. "It's too late, though," he said helplessly, "too late, now, too late for us…"

"No, it isn't," Dumbledore said in a firm voice. "It is not too late. It's never too late."

Not too late… Harry closed his eyes and couldn't suppress the shiver that touched his very core, like the shaking of a budding sapling at the eve of spring. "Professor," Harry said after a long pause. "Will my father be—here, tonight, during the operation?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said gravely. "It is too dangerous yet for him to leave the Hogwarts grounds."

Harry nodded. "I am glad," he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out as a shuddering sigh. "I am glad. He will be safe."


	21. The Trial

_A/N: Procyon Black deserves countless thanks for the beta, as well as many happy returns for her birthday._

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**Chapter 21: The Trial**

Harry found himself floating above a vast expanse of wrinkled darkness, dotted with little red lights. He thought it might be the sky, but where was the moon? And the stars weren't ever that flickering color of candles, and the sky never had wrinkles that seemed to be trees or large stones…

With a start, he realized he was staring down at the earth instead of up at the sky. I'm dreaming, he thought quite calmly. But where am I? and what am I dreaming of?

As the thoughts swirled around his mind like streaks of chocolate in a Christmas drink, he noticed white beginning to creep over his vision, like frost over a window. I suppose I'm withdrawing my mind from the snake's, Harry thought dubiously, for he wondered why he'd do such a thing while suspended so far up above the earth. He'd obviously want to see where he was and where he was going. The misty whiteness expanded, swallowing the darkness and wrinkles and little lights, until before him was a vast expanse of utter blankness…

But then he noticed little flickering lights in the middle of the whiteness. He stared, fascinated. Was he seeing things through his veil of blindness? The lights were like vague shimmers, glimmering in a cluster like the dimmest of stars; Harry counted them: there were either ten or eleven, though really he couldn't tell, they were so faint, so far away…

...something was pulling him, pulling him backwards, wrenching him from his dream—

He gasped and awoke. There was someone was strangling him, and he struggled desperately for a few moments before realizing that it was only his sweat-soaked sheets.

"_Arglwydd_," hissed the snake in concern, emerging from its usual nest behind Harry's pillow. "_What is the matter_?"

"_Nothing_," Harry replied. His heart was beating too fast, as though he'd just emerged from a nightmare. But he hadn't been having a nightmare. In fact, the dream had been rather peaceful, with him floating like a cloud over the glimmering earth—

Harry froze, listening intently. "_What was that_?"

The snake slithered quickly onto the ground. "_I felt it too_," it hissed anxiously. "_It was a groaning, or a deep_—"

The snake stopped. Harry heard the sound again: a mournful low note, seeming to come from far away yet everywhere at once. "_Is it_"—Harry began, though the idea was so incredulous he paused before continuing—"_is it the castle_?"

The snake set its head to the ground. "_It is_," said the snake, and in a flash, it had climbed up Harry's arm and settled itself around his neck. The whiteness cleared, and Harry drew in a sharp breath: moonlight flooded in from a window at the other end of the room, sharply illuminating everything as brilliantly as the sun's rays.

"_Quick_," the snake hissed. "_Remember your friend's father's threat?_"

Harry flung himself out of bed as the castle gave another groan. Vestiges of drowsiness cleared from his mind as he remembered starkly the words written in the color of dried blood. He hesitated for a brief moment as Dumbledore's instructions ran through his mind—_You must stay in your dormitory and pretend to be asleep_—but the snake was hissing ("_Are you waiting for the castle to collapse about your ears?"_)—

"_Wait_," Harry muttered. He fumbled in his trunk, groping and clawing through his clothes.

"_Arglwydd, you could go naked for all that it matters_," said the snake impatiently. "_And you're wearing the white robes Slytherin had gifted you in his chamber—you are perfectly_—"

In one swift movement, Harry shed his white robes and pulled on the plain black student robes. "_So I'm not as easily seen_," Harry hissed curtly.

"_No, don't put those things on your feet_!" hissed the snake as Harry began to stuff his bare feet into his shoes. "_The lightness of the water of sight works best without those chunky things_."

You never mentioned it before, Harry thought crossly, but he obeyed, kicking aside the shoes before he darted outside the dormitory.

The moon seemed unnaturally bright as its light flooded the corridors, giving the world an eerie hue. Harry stayed as best he could in the shadows. It was much easier than he thought it would be: he seemed to float as effortlessly as the wind, stepping lightly from place to place, passing as quickly and stealthily as a forgotten thought. Every so often, he would hear the castle groan, and as he approached the headmaster's office, meeting no one at all on his way, he thought the sounds became steadily louder.

"_Snake_," Harry whispered as they came upon the gargoyle, which looked distorted and unreal under the moonlight, "_tell it to open_."

The snake hissed sharply at the gargoyle, and it clambered aside just as the castle gave another, agonizing groan.

"_What are you going to tell Dumbledore_?" the snake asked as Harry leapt lightly up the stairs.

"_I don't know_," Harry answered, reaching the top of the spiraling staircase. "_That the castle is groaning? Maybe we're the only ones feeling_—"

He stopped. Dumbledore was at his desk, but his head was cradled in his arms, and he seemed almost to be a sculpture of tranquility as the moonlight played with his snow-white hair like a frosty halo.

"Professor?" Harry said hesitantly. "Professor?"

He waited, but there was no response.

The castle groaned again.

"_Wake him up, arglwydd_," the snake hissed impatiently. "_Don't just stand there, you've not much time_."

Harry took out his wand, and replied, annoyed, "_I'm trying!_" He tapped the headmaster gently on the shoulder (it would have been extremely disrespectful to tap Dumbledore's head, thought Harry) and said, "_Ennervate_."

Nothing happened.

"_Wake him up_—"

"I CAN'T!" Harry snapped. Something was wrong. He reached out both hands and shook the headmaster vigorously. "Professor? Professor, please wake up, something's happening. Professor Dumbledore! Pr—"

He stopped short as Dumbledore's head lolled aside and the wizened face moved into the moonlight. Harry jumped backwards in horror. The headmaster looked so—dead. "P-pro—" He reached out a hand and felt the old man's mouth. There was no movement of air, and the skin felt cold and lifeless, like wax.

"_His lips!"_ the snake hissed. "_Look! His lips are purple. He's been poisoned_."

"_Is he_—" Harry stopped, suddenly unable to make out the words. "_We can't stay here. I have to—do something, I've got to_—" What could he do? What could he do? Dumbledore was dead, lying there at his desk like a statue, and he was alone, and the castle was groaning, and he was trapped in a nightmare in which the moonlight poisoned everything it touched with an edge of madness—

"I'll take him to the hospital wing," Harry said decisively, slamming a lid on the panic. "He—he might not yet be—"

"_Dead_," the snake supplied, sounding shaken as well. Harry pointed his wand at the headmaster, not quite able to look fully at the body before him. "_Wingardium leviosa_," he muttered, and Dumbledore's body floated into the air, still in the same position as it had while sitting. As Harry hurried down the stairs, holding his wand tightly, it seemed to him that Dumbledore was an undead creature, one that would at any moment open its soulless eyes and reach out a gnarled hand and clutch him—

Harry froze and nearly jumped out of his skin. Down the corridor he had just entered, halfway between the headmaster's office and the hospital wing, wearing expressionless white masks and moving like a procession of the undead, were Death Eaters.

Harry leapt back. His heart was hammering a hole in his chest. Death Eaters! he thought frantically. How did they get in? Had Dumbledore—

He cursed himself furiously in his head: though he had leapt back out of sight, Dumbledore was still suspended in midair like a macabre puppet, fully illuminated by the moonlight and dangling plain in sight. Gritting his teeth, Harry slowly turned his wand—

"Hey!" a guttural voice whispered. "Watch where you're going, Avery."

Another voice stammered back, "I—I thought I saw…"

The footsteps ceased. Harry felt the snake tensing at his throat.

"You thought you saw _Dumbledore_? Floating in the _air_?" one of the Death Eaters said in a voice both incredulous and scornful, yet tainted by fear. "The Dark Lord has dealt with the old man! He is dead. You must be Confunded, Avery…"

"Never mind what you thought you saw," said a cold, disdainful voice Harry recognized immediately as belonging to Lucius Malfoy. "We are under orders from the Dark Lord to take the traitor and the boy, and not to dally…"

Harry felt his stomach turn to lead as the panic in his mind churned uncontrollably. He was dimly aware that his hands were trembling, shaking as violently as a rat that was caged and cornered. What was he going to do? Dumbledore was dead—dead—and Death Eaters had entered—he was alone—

—and they were going to take his father.

It was as though liquid steel had been poured over the sea of panic. Harry straightened. I won't let them do it, he thought calmly, not him nor Draco nor me. I won't let them, somehow. But I can't take them on all at once. I'm just one person. I—

"_Arglwydd_," the snake hissed urgently, pitching its voice so that it was like the breeze's murmur sliding along the silver-splashed walls, "_Arglwydd, listen to me—you cannot win by yourself, you cannot make it, you have to awaken the others, awaken them quickly_—"

"_How_?" Harry demanded. Running around and convincing them all would take too much time; he had to do it all at once—

"_The castle_!" the snake replied immediately. "_Are you not the last Heir? Command the castle to awake them, to do as you ask_—"

"_Wait_—_the castle? But—how can I_—"

"_You are the Heir_," whispered the snake. "_You are the Heir_."

For a moment, as Harry was suspended upon incredulity, the memory of the very first time he had met the snake flashed through his mind, of how the snake had told him to perform wandless magic, and how he had succeeded against his own disbelief. I am the Heir, thought Harry with renewed determination. I am the Heir. He deftly lowered Dumbledore's floating body and flung himself against the castle walls.

Hear me! he thought fiercely. Hogwarts, please, hear me!

He pressed himself closer against the stones, and he thought he could feel, like faint heartbeats, the footsteps of the Death Eaters as they neared the dungeons.

"_Quickly_," the snake hissed. "_You don't have much time_—"

Hear me, Hogwarts! Harry thought, concentrating as hard as he could, tuning out everything else from his mind. Awaken those who are still sleeping within your rooms, and show them the danger that is threatening their home!

He was trembling, and his cheeks, pressed hard against the wall, felt so painfully cold it seemed that he had been molded to the stone.

Hear me! Harry cried. Hear me—

The castle groaned again, its stones shuddering, and Harry was aware of a terrible creaking noise echoing from the very heart of its foundation.

"_Did it work_?" Harry whispered, lifting his face from the stone.

"_Yes, yes, I think it did_," the snake replied hastily. "_Now go, do you see those flashes_—?"

They're green, thought Harry with a terrible chill. He was about to take off again, but then he stalled as he looked down at Dumbledore's body. After a wrenching moment of indecision, he bent to the ground and pushed the headmaster's stiff body against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry grunted, nudging the half-moon spectacles with slightly shaking hands back onto the long, crooked nose. But as he did so, it seemed that the fact fully dawned for the first time, pouring ice into his veins: Dumbledore is dead, Dumbledore is dead, the only one Voldemort ever feared is dead—dead—

"_Go_!" hissed the snake, and Harry was gone, darting down the corridor and rounding the corners like a howling wind, flashing past the edges of the moonlight and ducking beneath the glittering windows—

"…no hope, Severus. Put down your wand like a good boy."

"I will not let you take the boy, Lucius. I will not allow it."

"Ah, Severus. Which boy are you referring to? Or is one not enough for you? Oh!" Lucius Malfoy pitched his voice so that he sounded extravagantly apologetic. Harry, beneath the pounding of his heart, could feel his blood boiling. "Excuse me, my memory is playing tricks one me—I forgot, you're _unable_ to indulge in such pleasures…"

The entrance guardian, which Harry had remembered was a statue of a wizard with a set of scales in one hand, was now just a block of unshaped marble. Did the Killing Curse do _that_? Harry wondered in dismay. Standing at the doorway, holding their wands at the ready, were two Death Eaters, their masks almost glowing in the stark moonlight.

"_Do not go that way_," the snake whispered in an almost imperceptible murmur. "_Stealth over valor, arglwydd, stealth over valor. Do you remember the entrance you took in the paintings? There is one just like that in this world as well_."

Harry's mind was blank for a moment before he suddenly remembered—the grandfather clock with the slowly swinging pendulum that opened to Snape's private quarters when he was in the portrait world.

"_Where is it_?" he hissed, peering at the walls.

"_Down that way_," the snake replied, turning its head so that Harry was looking down the darkened corridor. He stared for a moment. There was nothing. Just as he opened his mouth to tell the snake that it was having hallucinations, the outline of the grandfather clock appeared, situated against the wall in the middle of the hall.

Harry folded himself into the shadows. "_Go quietly_," the snake whispered to Harry's ear.

"…be a long night for all of us. After the Dark Lord is finished with his ritual and becomes the most powerful wizard that ever lived, he will celebrate by dealing with you two traitors…"

"But Father—!"

Harry, crouched next to the wooden sides of the grandfather clock, nearly knocked the pendulum when he heard that voice. Draco! he thought furiously. Why is he here—why? Why didn't he stay in the Room of Requirement? _Why_—?

Gritting his teeth, Harry extended his arm and pressed his hand against the ensign.

"—are not my son! I know you _not_, you—you traitor of _blood_!"

Harry winced at the sharp sound of flesh against flesh. He was aware of heavy breathing, but of whose he could not tell.

"_Snake_," Harry murmured with the quietest of whispers, "_can you take a look_…"

Wordlessly, the snake obeyed, extending its neck slowly like a sinuous periscope around the corner of the bookshelf they were hiding behind. Lucius Malfoy was standing near the entrance, identifiable only by his blond hair spilling from behind his mask. Flanking him were three Death Eaters. Closer to the bookshelves and holding himself stiffly with a sneer playing about his lips was Snape; and beside him, a hand clutching his cheek, was Draco.

"_I need to distract Malfoy_," Harry whispered as the snake quietly withdrew its head. "_Then I can take my father out_." Draco can't pass through the clock, Harry thought feverishly, I can't take him along; but he had no better ideas, and he could hear Lucius Malfoy speaking—

"…But Draco, you still have a chance! Here, take this wand—and strike down this traitor, this foul, Muggle-loving worm!"

Harry pressed his hand against the ensign and slipped back into the corridor. A distraction, he thought, looking about desperately. Anything—something—

There was a suit of armor right next to him. Harry glanced at the Death Eaters guarding the entrance. They were staring straight ahead, looking more like statues than men. Quietly, Harry loosened a gauntlet…

"_Careful, arglwydd_," the snake hissed, and Harry could feel its muscles tensing against his neck.

"_Don't worry_," Harry whis—

The gauntlet clanked. Harry swore under his breath and flung the piece of armor down the length of the hall; it skittered over the floor, and Harry heard the exclamations, footsteps, startled shouts—

He pressed his hand against the ensign and, after a moment of disorientation that seemed to take forever, he plunged through. Both Malfoys and the Death Eaters were staring at the entrance, but Snape, in a movement swifter than the path of a spell, had darted forth and snatched his wand from one of the Death Eater's hands. Now! Harry screamed in his mind, and he leapt forward and clasped his father's hand.

He only spared a single glance to his father's face, but in that brief moment he saw a mixture of raw disbelief and incredulity— And then there were more footsteps, yells, the sound of furniture crashing; Harry thrust out a finger against the ensign and, his other hand still clutching his father's hand—

They were out.

Shouts, incantations, flashes of color, sounds of pain and anger scattered through the air. Harry's appeal to the castle seemed to have worked, for spells seemed to be hailing down at them from the other end of the corridor.

"Can you get Draco?" Snape demanded harshly, pulling his hand from Harry's grasp.

Harry shook his head. "Not this way—"

Snape's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Go back," he spat. "Run! How dare you risk your life! GO—"

But before Snape could finish, the snake hissed with surprising ferocity and thrust itself forward as though it were attacking. "_No_—!" Harry cried, stumbling because his vision was careening from the snake's abrupt movement, but the snake withdrew its head almost as quickly.

Then they both ducked instinctively as a spell splashed across the moonlight stones above their heads. Snape sprang to his feet and plunged back into his quarters; Harry followed, but nearly ran headlong into Lucius Malfoy.

"Not so fast, Snape," Malfoy sneered, one hand grabbing the collar of Harry's robes. "I always knew you were slippery, but—" He stopped suddenly, as though struck by realization, and Harry seized that opportunity to smash his fist across the Death Eater's face.

The mask flipped off, and Harry nearly stopped struggling as the moonlight fell over the Death Eater's face. Harry remembered noticing something different about Malfoy the last time they had met; but now, it leapt at him like a monster: Malfoy seemed almost translucent in the moonlight, and his eyes had no pupils. They were merely disks of grey.

"Ah, you are Severus's son," Malfoy whispered, "you—who once were Harry Potter, who are now—"

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry shouted hoarsely, his wand jabbing into some part of Malfoy's body. But though Harry saw a muffled flash of red, Malfoy only tensed, the sinews in his neck straining, and did not let go.

"Your spells do not work on me," Malfoy sneered, bringing his face closer, and Harry couldn't help staring at the eerie left eye. "I have sacrificed enough to be safe from your spells and"—he lowered his voice—"your _needles_—"

Needles? thought Harry, stunned. How did Malfoy know of the silver thieves—?

"_This is my time, arglwydd_," the snake said suddenly. "_Remember: they are the ieiunita!"_ The snake's hiss rose until it became like a shrieking wind on a stormy winter night. It struck, aiming for Malfoy's eyes, and Harry stumbled backwards, freed from the Death Eater's clutch; but his mind was still trapped within the snake, and suddenly he was looking at the gaping hole of Malfoy's mouth, a darkness that loomed closer and closer and—

Everything was white.

"_Snake_?" Harry cried, bending close to the ground and feeling ahead of him with his hands. "_Snake_?"

But just as he touched a body lying still on the floor, he flashed aside and felt the incoming spell smash into the ground where he had been a split second ago.

"_Snake!"_ he hissed, desperation coloring his voice with anger. He couldn't see anything—he was blind and alone and lost—his world had vanished into complete and utter nothingness—

But no: there was something there, a small wrinkle in the field of blazing white. He stared at it, watching it pulse once or twice before fading away like a snowflake landing gently on the surface of a lake…

Someone shouted, and he fell, unconscious.

qpqpqp

Harry awoke feeling disoriented and disconnected. His back hurt from the hardness of the ground. His elbow hurt, and even his nose hurt. The back of his head hurt too, and as his eyes fluttered open, the heaviness of despair from seeing only the blank whiteness again seemed to intensify the pain.

Where am I? he wondered. As he moved his arms, he heard the gentle clinking sound of chains. He frowned. There were two cold, heavy things around his wrists. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and realized that there were manacles around his ankles as well.

There was a loud clanking sound from farther off, and Harry felt instinctively for his wand—but it was not there. Have I been captured? he thought wildly, vainly feeling at the cold stone ground around him. Am I—?

"Get up, boy!" a voice snarled from only a few steps away.

Harry got slowly to his feet and straightened himself stiffly. He heard another clanking sound, this time much closer (I must be in a cell, he thought), and felt someone roughly grab his upper arm.

"Don't touch me!" Harry spat through his teeth. His heart was hammering against his chest, and his mind worked furiously. "Where are you? Are you a Death Eater?"

Harry staggered as the stranger struck him across his face.

"You think you can worm your way out of this one by pretending to be dumb, eh?" the man sneered in a voice full of hate and loathing. Harry could taste blood in his mouth. "It won't be so simple!"

Harry stumbled; the stranger was going too fast, turning too many corners and going down too many drafty corridors. He thought he could hear voices, whispers, far off mutterings. Where am I? Harry wondered again as the man pulling him along stopped and Harry heard once more a clinking sound. Where am I?

There was the creak of a door opening, and Harry stumbled into what had to be a vast chamber. The voices were much louder now, bubbling like a crowd at his fingertips. If only I could see, Harry thought desperately, and wondered with a sense of dread what had happened to the snake.

The man who had dragged Harry in cleared his throat. "The boy is here, your Honor," he said loudly, and a hush fell over the crowd, one that reminded him of the whispers that had surrounded him at Hogwarts those first few days after he had returned.

Harry felt another two pair of hands grab him roughly and force him forward. He stumbled along, feeling completely bewildered. Where was he? Was this Voldemort's idea of entertainment, playing judge in a court? Was he even still in the magical world?

"Sit down," a man growled, and Harry felt himself forced into a chair that seemed to clamp manacles onto his wrists and ankles on its own accord.

"The Wizengamot will now hear this case," a voice boomed.

Wizengamot? thought Harry, still utterly confused. What's going on? Is this the trial Dumbledore had mentioned about the Dursleys?

"Hearing of the seventeenth of October, into offences committed by Harry James Potter against wizard-kind, including consorting with Death Eaters under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the usage of the Unforgivable Killing Curse, and the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. This is in flagrant violation of the Decree number One Hundred and Forty-Seven…"

Harry felt his mouth drop open in shock as the meaning of the words tore into him as relentlessly as a pack of hunting wolves. They were accusing him—of going off with Death Eaters—and killing Dumbledore with the _Avada Kedavra_— It was madness! Where was—where were the other Order members, they'd know he was innocent, where was Hermione, R—(no, not Ron), Lupin, Luna, his father—?

He licked his lips and called out, interrupting the inexorable voice, "I didn't do any of that!"

The crowd murmured again in a way that made Harry think, with more than a touch of dread, that he had made a mistake.

"It is not your turn to speak!" the thunderous voice commanded. "The accused must stay silent!"

Harry was about to argue when another voice filled the hall—a voice that seemed to reach the corners and crannies of the chamber without need for amplification, a pleased-sounding voice that was strangely high-pitched. "Perhaps under these circumstances, the normal procedures may be waived."

Cinna! Harry thought, his stomach clenching.

The crowd was murmuring again, this time in surprise, as though it did not know what to think of this new pronouncement.

"My fellow wizards and witches, these are times of war, and in times of war the procedures of peace do not apply," Cinna continued. The crowd seemed to subside—in acquiescence, Harry thought, with the feeling that he was trapped in the eye of a storm, moments before the fury hit. Harry clenched his arms and pulled against his bonds, but it was useless, and for the first time, he felt utterly helpless.

"Very well, Mr. Cinna," the booming voice said after a few moments of deliberation.

"Thank you, Minister," Cinna replied courteously, and Harry wondered what had happened to Fudge. Had he been fired? But thoughts of Fudge vanished as Harry heard Cinna's footsteps drawing closer and closer. He stiffened, straining against the metal that bound him to the chair. They'll come at any moment and put things to right, Harry told himself as he forced himself to stop struggling. Father and the Order and Hermione and all the rest… they'll come…

"I understand," Cinna began, and the crowd hushed, "that this comes as a shock to us all, that the Boy-Who-Lived, who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sixteen years ago, would now betray his blood and people and murder the greatest wizard of our time. I completely understand the shock you must feel, the incredulity, the anger. But these are desperate times, my fellow wizards and witches, and unpleasant things that must be done, must be done.

"I call upon Ronald Weasley to take the witness stand."

Harry felt his stomach plummet. If they were going to fish out witnesses from Hogwarts, then half the students would be able to testify against him. And Ron… Some part of him that had been buried by time and acceptance and pity writhed bitterly at the betrayal: Ron—his best friend, at times his only friend…

"Mr. Weasley, as this is a trial of highest offence, you have the choice of taking Veritaserum," boomed the voice of the Minister, but its tone was more kindly than before. "Would you prefer to take that option?"

Ron didn't respond for a moment. "Do I—have to? I'd… I'd rather not…"

There was some rustling from the crowd, of whispers passing back and forth, and Harry felt a desperate measure of hope.

"Very well," said the Minister. "Proceed, Mr. Cinna."

Cinna's taking his time, Harry thought as moments passed in restless silence, and for the first time he felt a furious and helpless hatred bent towards the man with a high-pitched voice and self-satisfied smile. If only I could see, Harry thought. If only I could see; I'm sure he's smiling right now, grinning like a monkey.

"Mr. Weasley," Cinna said at last, "did you notice anything… suspicious about Mr. Potter's behavior?"

"Yes, yes I did, definitely," Ron replied, sounding nervous. "I—I noticed it right away, after he came back from… from wherever he went. He spent less time with me, and always went around with Draco Malfoy…"

At Malfoy's name, another murmur went through the crowd, but this one was ominous with disapproval.

"Did he used to spend a lot of time with Draco Malfoy?"

"'Course not!" Ron exclaimed, nervousness gone. "Harry hated Malfoy—_hated_ him, but Malfoy was always trying to get Harry in trouble, and Harry never started any of the problems, and Snape always played favorites with Malfoy, _always_"—he was beginning to spit out the words, and Harry wondered if he was frothing at the mouth—"so Harry'd get in trouble for things that were Malfoy's fault."

"So Mr. Potter was never on friendly terms with Draco Malfoy?"

"No, never."

"Now, Mr. Weasley, besides the general changes in Mr. Potter's behavior, was there any specific instance that made you particularly suspicious?"

Ron was silent for a moment, and Harry ran his mind through all the times he'd encountered Ron, hoping desperately that Ron would be unable to say anything.

"Yes, actually," Ron said suddenly, "the day of the—attack, I told Potter in the library that he was an imposter, and he—he admitted it, he said that he _wasn't_ really Harry Potter." Ron raised his voice until it sounded like the barking of a maddened dog. "He admitted it, you know! He admitted he wasn't Harry Potter, he was Harry _Snape_."

Harry remained wooden at the hate-filled words, though the crowd seemed to boil. They should do insanity screenings for the witnesses, Harry thought coldly.

"Would that be all, Mr. Cinna?" the Minister boomed.

"Yes it would," Cinna replied. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Next, I would like to call Neville Longbottom to the stand."

Neville? Harry thought with a start, feeling even more betrayed than with Ron. He remembered how Neville had stood up for him that first day back, how Neville, at the Department of Mysteries, had remained standing when all others had fallen, had looked understandingly at Harry after Sirius's death…

"Take a seat Neville, if you wish," Cinna said in what seemed like a mocking imitation of Dumbledore's tone, but which sounded, to Harry, carelessly patronizing. "Now, can you tell us, Mr. Longbottom, how Mr. Potter's behavior has changed ever since he returned from his long sojourn?"

Neville cleared his throat. "Ah—he… he d-did change a lot after he got back, like what R-Ron said," Neville stuttered, his voice coming out as a nearly incomprehensible mumble. "I… he…"

"Was there anything about Mr. Potter's actions that made you take particular notice?" Cinna asked, almost lazily. "Particularly at the end of last year?"

Harry's heart froze: so this was what Cinna was getting at, he thought. This.

"Well—at the end of l-last year, we went to the Ministry of Mysteries to the Department of Ma—I mean, the D-Department of Mysteriesin the M-M-Ministry of Magic…"

"Yes," Cinna interrupted, "and did Mr. Potter do anything there that disturbed you, that made you wonder if he was truly on the side of the Light?"

"Well," Neville stalled, "well, yes—I mean, he _did_ do something… But he did it badly, see, and he—"

"What did he do, Mr. Longbottom?"

"He—he tried—he ran after B-Bellatrix Lestrange because she—she killed someone, and so Harry was, well, mad, and he—after he ran after Lestrange, after they were—well, they were fighting, and Harry tried to do the C-C-Cruc-c—"

"The Cruciatus!" a ringing voice proclaimed from the crowd. Harry recognized it immediately as belonging to Neville's grandmother. The rest of the crowd whispered feverishly at this new development, but Neville's grandmother, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil around her, continued in the same, merciless tone, "Frank Longbottom, my son, was driven insane by Bellatrix Lestrange, and he _never_ stuttered. Not even after he became mad."

"Thank you for your comments, Mrs. Longbottom," the Minister said in a gracious voice. "Would that be all from Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Cinna?"

"Yes," said Cinna.

When do I get a say? Harry wondered angrily. Wasn't there a part where the defendant got to say something? He was reminded with an icy chill of the Death-Eater trials he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve—the grim faces, the pervasive fear, the hatred and paranoia that condemned men and women to Azkaban; but even then, the Death Eaters had been allowed to speak.

The crowd suddenly quieted, and a moment later, Harry heard Cinna begin to speak.

"So, my fellow wizards and witches, it is clear from the testimonies of these two Hogwarts students, who live in very close proximity to Mr. Potter, that the Golden Boy of yesteryear has certainly… _changed_. He performed"—_attempted_, Harry amended while clenching his jaw—"an Unforgivable last year, an offense which he successfully kept hidden; he has suddenly become close friends with the son of a known Death Eater this year;"—but Draco's not a Death Eater! Harry thought furiously, but within a moment he felt as though stabbed by a shard of ice: where was Draco? What had happened after he had fallen unconscious? Had Draco been captured? Was he—dead? And Father! What had happened to Snape?—"and now, he has murdered the greatest wizard of our age.

"I would like to call Hermione Granger to the stand."

For a moment, Harry felt only bewilderment and a feeling that something was very, very wrong. It was impossible that Hermione would testify against him; it was impossible—utterly impossible. She had told him to be safe, that day of the attack; she had said things to him in a voice that had let his heart take wing; she had—she was— Something's not right, Harry thought quite clearly and calmly. Something is very, very wrong.

"Miss Granger, can you tell us about anything that Mr. Potter did in the days before the attack that made you feel suspicious?"

"Yes," Hermione said in an unhurried, clear voice. "There was something he said that made me feel very suspicious. A week before the attack, I confronted Potter about the accusation of his having used the Unforgivable Cruciatus. I had not wanted to believe it. But instead of denying it or admitting to his guilt, Potter laughed and said that he had not only performed the curse, he had even asked He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for advice on how to perform it more successfully…"

"You're—" Harry lurched forward against his chains, feeling the bewilderment finally give way to a ferocious anger. "She's been enchanted, or Confunded, or cursed, or—" Harry turned blindly in the direction he had last heardCinna's voice. "That is not her speaking," he spat. "Anybody can tell you that—you did something to her, you are controlling her, forcing her to tell lies, making up—"

"SILENCE!" the Minister roared.

"But it's true, sir, she's under an enchantment because Caius Cinna put a spell on—"

"_Silencio!"_

Harry swore, mouthing the most terrible words he could imagine, and hoped that they were seen; but no sound came from his throat. The crowd was no longer murmuring; it sounded, in fact, as though it had come upon a decision. Harry slumped back in his chair, feeling more furious and helpless than ever. What was going on? Why was nobody helping him—why was he alone, so alone, so utterly and completely trapped by his solitude? This was a nightmare; he had to wake up soon, he had to wake soon, it wasn't real, where was the snake, where was his father, Draco, he wanted to wake up, this couldn't be real, this was only a dream, only a dream, only a dream…

"Are you finished, Mr. Cinna?"

"Just one more thing, Minister. Miss Granger, I understand you were once Mr. Potter's close friend. But what are your sentiments towards him now, in light of his recent changes…?"

"I hate him," Hermione said in a brittle tone, and Harry winced (it's not real, she's cursed, she's Confunded, it's—not—real!), feeling as though something in his chest had exploded and left behind only barren remains and twisted shadows of what it once had been. "I can't believe him. I hate him—I thought he was a friend, I thought he was—that he was Harry, but now I know… He's not really Harry at all…"

"Thank you, Miss Granger," said Cinna in a gentle tone. "If I may, Minister…?"

"If you wish," the voice boomed, sounding vaguely reluctant.

"_Finite Incantatem_," said Cinna, and Harry felt the silencing charm evaporate. He took a deep breath but said nothing. He waited.

"Well, Mr. Potter," said Cinna, and Harry shivered; how had Cinna gotten so close so quickly? "Have you anything to say to the charges leveled against you?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "Firstly, I would like to question the validity of your first witness. Mr. Weasley was attacked in the Department of Mysteries last year by a brain, and Mrs. Weasley told me herself that the attack left deep thought-scars."

"My, my, thought-scars," Cinna murmured. "So you're asking us all to discount Mr. Weasley's testimony because you think he's insane?"

"So thinks Mrs. Weasley, who I believe is a very reliable source," Harry replied, trying to curb back his anger.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley is unconscious, due to the attack that all evidence indicates you helped to orchestrate," Cinna said coolly. "But I did contact Percival Ignatius Weasley on the issue of his brother's mental state. Percy Weasley was kind enough to give me a report from St. Mungo's, which states that Ronald Weasley's mental health is perfectly fine." There was the rustling of a parchment being unrolled. "Minister?"

"St. Mungo's can't detect it," Harry argued, turning his face to the sound of the parchment, "not all thought-scars can be found, and with Ron—as Mrs. Weasley told me, he—" Harry stopped, and the resulting silence piled upon him like ice cold waves of the sea.

There was no sound except for the cough or rustle of clothing. "Thank you, Mr. Cinna," said the Minister, making another sound with the parchment. "The St. Mungo's report looks perfectly reasonable to me, and it says that Mr. Weasley indeed has no discernable problem concerning his mental health."

There has to be a way, Harry thought furiously. I'm innocent. I am, I know I am, I am I am I am—He took a deep breath. Where's the Order? Where are they? _Why—am—I—here—alone?_ For a dreadful moment, as he forced himself to stop struggling, he remembered the despair he had felt through the first half of summer, when he had waited and waited and waited for help to come, when he had waited on his blood-soaked cot with maggots crawling over his wounds and only the darkest of despair to keep him company…

"Veritaserum," Harry said suddenly. "I would like to use Veritaserum to verify my claim that I did not murder Albus Dumbledore."

The crowd murmured again. Harry waited, concentrating as best he could on his breathing, going in and out of his lungs, slowly, slowly…

"Very well," the Minister said, once again reluctantly. "But as even the power of Veritaserum can be altered by Confundus spells and the like, I ask the Aurors to perform, once again, the standard check for mind-altering spells…"

Harry heard the approach of several pairs of footsteps, and then the tingling wash of spells over his body.

"No evidence of Confundus," a gravelly voice spoke. "Nor Obturbo, nor Obliviate."

"Nor Mendacium," a woman with a nasal voice added.

The footsteps left, and the Minister said, "Very well. Would the court Potions Master please apply the Veritaserum?"

Harry heard another set of footsteps approaching, and for a moment his heart was wild with hope—perhaps this was Snape, his father, the Potions Master—but the footsteps were too abrupt, and Harry felt a gnarled hand seize his jaw, pushing it open.

Then he felt three drops of a tasteless liquid fall on his tongue.

"Your Honor, the potion has been administered."

Sounds were louder. Clearer. Sharper. His head lolled back. He was tired.

"What is your name?"

"Harry James…" Potter? Snape?

"Were you, then, Harry James Potter?"

"Yes." A long time ago. A long time ago.

"Is your father Severus Snape."

My father. "Yes." Where is he? My father. I want him. I want my father.

"Where were you on the night of the Death-Eater attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Where… Where… "In bed. Then I awoke. I had something to do." The air felt cool. His voice didn't sound like his own. It rang uncomfortably in his head. "I had somewhere to go."

"And where did you go?"

"To the headmaster's office. To Dumbledore's office."

"What did you do there?"

His mind was blank, but his mouth moved on its own accord. "I killed Albus Dumbledore."

Whispering. Murmuring. He was a tiny boat tossed on a monstrous sea. Sounds crashed around him, against him.

"How did you kill Albus Dumbledore?"

"The same curse Voldemort used on my mother and father." He felt his throat contorting as he pronounced the words: "_Avada Kedavra_."

More sounds, noises, whispers and murmurs. He was chained and helpless and weeping, he didn't know why he was weeping, he knew nothing anymore,

"_Why did you kill Albus Dumbledore?"_

where was he, where did everyone else go, why was he alone, why wouldn't tears come, why, why—

"_The Dark Lord commanded me."_

He was lying in the middle of a vast, empty tundra, the cold wind howling about his ears, the cold snow encasing his body in ice,

"_Are you a servant of the Dark Lord_?"

"_Yes_."

the cold white emptiness slowly consuming his mind and body, leaving only a lingering thought: I am so alone, why, why…

qpqpqp

The room could have been anywhere. He felt every inch that he could reach, running his fingers over each crack, each crevice, each damp and dusty corner. He knew that there was no light, for the only opening in the four walls was a barred door at one end. But he didn't need light, besides to tell the time. It might have been days. Weeks. Years, or even lifetimes. All passed in a haze of numbness.

He heard the sounds from very far off. First the clanking, then the footsteps. And then, the voices.

"…up a good fight, the both of you. You managed to keep him at Hogwarts, but, of course, that was what I had intended anyway."

"Indeed."

Some vague, distant part of Harry's mind that had been dead for days or months or years awoke and trembled. That voice was his father's.

"I should demand a sort of payment for letting you see your son. Some sort of retribution."

There was no answer. The sounds were getting closer, and Harry could discern, more clearly than ever, the unmistakable tread of his father's footsteps.

"I wonder how far you would go to see your son, Severus. How far you would go to see this outcast of the wizarding world, a blind and wronged boy who is currently being cursed in effigy every imaginable place. This boy, who is still, in his heart and soul, the son of the man who made your life hell for seven long years…"

Harry got to his feet. The chains about his wrists and ankles clinked with his every movement, sounding unnaturally loud. The only other noise was that of the footsteps, now only a few moments away...

"Here he is, Severus," said Caius Cinna in a pleased-sounding way. "The one you have been wanting to see."

"Thank you," Snape said coldly, and stepped into the room. He was so close Harry could feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"I can't have the two of you chatting for hours, can I?" Cinna said. "But you have no clock, I'm afraid. Ah, but this hourglass would be very handy." Harry heard the thud of something being set on the floor. "Enjoy your visit," Cinna added in a mocking tone, and then the door shut with a clang.

Harry said nothing. Moments passed in silence, and he wondered, even as his heart thrummed in his chest with unnamable emotions, if the half hour would pass this way, without a word exchanged across an unbridgeable chasm.

Then, after quietly clearing his throat, Snape said, "Harry."


	22. Prometheus Unbound

_A/N: Once more, immense thanks to Procyon Black._

* * *

**Chapter 22: Prometheus Unbound **

The thought ran through his mind and tumbled through his body, tingling every part of his being like a whispered hallelujah: he called me Harry. He called me Harry. Then, after taking a deep, shuddering breath, he said in a hard, brisk voice, "We don't have very much time. What happened? Where am I?"

"You are in Hogwarts castle," Snape said, slipping back into his typical cool tone. "More specifically, you are the castle's prisoner, and Caius Cinna, who is now headmaster, is your warden." Hogwarts, thought Harry. At least I'm not in Azkaban. It could be worse. "Many things happened that night, but first, how did you know that there was a Death-Eater attack?"

"The castle was groaning," Harry replied. "Didn't you feel it?"

"Groaning?"

"Yes—trembling, almost, as though it were in pain."

"I see," Snape murmured. His voice was unfathomable. "And so you went to Dumbledore's office?"

Harry stiffened. "Where else would I have gone?"

"It was a wise choice, given the circumstances," Snape said in what might have been a conciliatory tone. "And—" He paused.

"He was dead when I found him," said Harry. "He was—slumped over his desk, and his lips were purple. The snake said… said that Dumbledore must've been poisoned." Harry beat down the memories of stark moonlight and waxen skin and cold, unmoving lips. Later, not now; he had less than half an hour, and time was ticking away. "So I tried to take Dumbledore to the hospital wing, just in case—you know. Just in case he was still alive."

"But on the way, you met Death Eaters?"

"Yes," said Harry. "And I heard them go towards the dungeons, and I saw the flashes of green." He paused. "You know the rest."

"Yes," Snape said slowly, "I do. After you retrieved me, I went back to find Draco, but he was—gone. And then I saw you fall, and I… went to where you were." He took a deep breath, and Harry knew that that simple act was more of a display of vulnerability than Snape had ever allowed. "But by then, the Death Eaters had begun to retreat, for Cinna had come, and—"

"He must have felt that Dumbledore was dead," Harry broke in. There was a momentary pause. "Sorry."

"No, but what did you mean by that, that he felt Dumbledore was dead?"

"Dumbledore told me, the day before—the attack, that Cinna had bet his soul to him. But Dumbledore didn't think he really owned Cinna's soul, only that Cinna believed Dumbledore owned it, and that everything was a result of that belief. So after Dumbledore died, Cinna must've believed that he'd got his soul back, and so could do anything he wished."

Snape was silent for a moment as he took in what Harry had said. "Indeed… So that is the story of Caius Cinna…" His voice faded into thought, and Harry fidgeted, his chains clinking gently.

"The trial, sir," Harry blurted out. "Did you—were you there?"

Snape sounded reluctant when he answered, and Harry, too, was unsure if he wanted to hear. "I was."

"But you didn't say anything."

"No, I—"

"You couldn't have," Harry finished. "Nobody would have believed you." He took a deep breath. "I'm—just glad that you were there, sir." Harry wasn't sure if that was truthful or not, and wasn't sure if Snape could hear the hesitation.

"Don't call me sir. I am not your professor anymore."

Harry felt at first a slight but not unpleasant bewilderment, but then his heart plummeted. "Have I been expelled?"

"Yes. I'm afraid you have."

At least I'm still alive, thought Harry, trying to ease the leaden feeling in his chest. At least I'm not in Azkaban, or some equally terrible place. I'm still at Hogwarts. Still at Hogwarts.

"Hermione wasn't herself," Harry said, pushing himself on, reminding himself that time was short. "She was being controlled, or Confunded—"

"As much as I agree with you, the Ministry does not," said Snape in his usual tone. "Cinna has been very clever with her."

"But will she—has she got herself back?" Harry asked desperately. It sickened him that Cinna was doing something to Hermione, perhaps trapping her in a terrible place, rendering her helpless as he took over her mind. "And what did he do with the Veritaserum? I…" He felt his mouth go dry at the memory. He remembered, also, after having forgotten it safely for months, the hot breath against his skin and the sharp pain of his shame as he'd fallen helplessly into darkness in that prison, as he had been— It was still difficult, putting a name to the act: as he had been—raped.

"I do not know if Miss Granger is herself yet, but I think it very unlikely. Surely she would not be so silent if she had her will back. But as for the Veritaserum—" He broke off. "I do not understand all of Cinna's powers." Snape began suddenly to pace. "Even less do I understand his motives. Caius Cinna is—" Once again he broke off, though he continued to move agitatedly.

"Has he—done anything to you?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"No, no he hasn't, nothing besides a few taunts," Snape dismissed. "But his motives—he bet his soul, did you say?"

"Yes."

"Then, perhaps, his motives might be based in pride, though I can hardly believe a person with such a big-head could exist in this world."

"So he wants to defeat Voldemort alone?" Harry asked slowly, as comprehension came. "He wants to manage what Dumbledore never managed?"

"Perhaps," Snape said.

"But the Prophecy—" Harry began, and stopped.

Just as suddenly as he began pacing, Snape ceased all movement. "The Prophecy…?"

"It was broken in the Department of Mysteries," said Harry. "But Dumbledore remembered it in full. It said that the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to—"

"—those who have thrice defied him," Snape continued, his voice no more than a whisper, "born as the seventh month dies…"

"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power that the Dark Lord knows not—supposedly. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Harry finished. "Did Dumbledore tell it to you?"

"No," Snape said softly.

"Then how did you—" Harry stopped. Then, he almost staggered as realization dawned. "It was _you_! You who overheard Trelawney when she made it, you who told Voldemort!"

"Yes," said Snape in that same, uncharacteristically soft voice; but now it seemed to quiver. "It was I."

"_You_…"

"I HAD NO CHOICE!" Snape snarled, and Harry stumbled back. He froze and stiffened when hands reached out to grab his shoulders, but then he realized they were only there to steady him.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Snape was saying, his voice sounding brokenly uncertain, "I—I did not mean to do that. I—" He stopped, as though searching for words, and Harry thought that this was the only time his father had been so speechless. "I am a—very—sorry man, Harry. I am sorry for so many things, and you're involved in more than half of them." Harry was rather glad Snape's hands didn't leave his shoulders, and that—perhaps it was only his wishful imagination—those last words sounded more dryly affectionate than bitter. "I don't ask for forgiveness, but I—and I will not try to justify myself or the hatred that drove me to do these things, but I—"

"It's okay," Harry interrupted, part of his mind wandering into the past and remembering what Dumbledore, his weary old head bent, had said about regret. Vaguely, almost as though he didn't dare name it, he felt a childlike wonderment: that Snape would say such words to him, would speak to him as though… He stopped the thought. "It doesn't matter now," said Harry, "it's all in the past. And I—do—forgive you." Otherwise, I wouldn't want so badly for you to be my father, Harry added in his mind. He asked, before the delicate silence could become awkward, "Where's Draco?"

Harry felt the hands on his shoulders tense, and Snape said nothing for a moment.

"Is he—" Harry stopped, waited. His mind froze like a frightened bird, and his heartbeat sounded unnaturally loud in his ears.

"I would have lied to you," Snape said softly. "But…" He took a breath, one that shuddered strangely. "Draco is dead."

Harry licked his suddenly dry lips. "Dead?" he said, and his voice sounded very small and very far away. "Dead? How? Is he really dead—do you"—he swallowed—"do you know for sure?"

"Yes," Snape said in a strangely gentle voice, though Harry was dimly aware of how close it was to breaking. "Two days after he was taken, I received a parcel with his… head in it."

Head? Harry thought confusedly, and he felt hands on his shoulders again, holding him steady; _head_? "No," Harry whimpered, "he—he wouldn't, it's impossible, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't—"

"Lucius Malfoy is also dead," said Snape in that same, gentle tone. "I found his body close to where you had fallen. Your snake was next to him."

"My snake," said Harry, feeling almost against his will a desperate rush of hope, "is it still—"

"It seemed still alive after I found it, but also as though it had been Kissed."

Kissed…? Then Harry shuddered, remembering the last thing he had seen before everything had been swallowed by whiteness. "By a Dementor?"

"Yes. But by the time you had awakened, it was no longer alive."

Harry felt the hands on his shoulders leave, as slowly and tentatively as a repentant sinner. But Harry could think of only Draco—dead. The snake—dead. Dead. Gone. Forever. Dumbledore, too, was dead, and Hermione was no more than a living doll, her brilliant mind dulled by Cinna's power. The Hermione he had loved, the Hermione that had guided him through the darkness of his first days back—was dead. He was alone once more. Alone.

He felt a hand return and touch his shoulder with great hesitation. "I am… sorry, Harry."

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. "I—" He swallowed. The words died on his tongue, and he asked instead, "How much… how much time is left?"

"Not long."

His mind worked feverishly, both to gather what he knew and to suppress those unbearable things for later. "Voldemort will come for me," he said urgently. "He will come for me because I am the only one who can destroy him, and he who can destroy me—"

"In what he left me, Dumbledore wrote of how he thought Voldemort must be destroyed," Snape interrupted.

"How?" Harry demanded quickly, but he could not help noticing that there was a hesitation to Snape's voice.

"Horcruxes," Snape replied in a low tone, "or the splitting of a soul. The Dark Lord made six horcruxes, which is to say that he split his soul into seven parts, and to utterly destroy him, each part must in turn be destroyed."

"Horcruxes?" said Harry, tasting the word as it echoed through his mind. He thought that it sounded somehow familiar. "But—six? And each must be very well guarded…"

"Yes," Snape said heavily, "But it is not so simple after this ritual that he performed, the ritual that took the lives and souls of ten magical children. He has become an _ieiunita_."

"_Ieiunita_," Harry breathed, and he remembered with a terrible pang that that was the word the snake has hissed with boundless fury before it had met its death. What else had it said? That its time had come? It knew it was going to die, Harry realized. And it faced its death with the power of a thousand wintry storms. He shuddered: shuddered at the keenness of loss, shuddered at the memory of that gaping hole before sight too died, and shuddered with a terrible determination that the snake would not have died in vain, that Draco, who had stood pale and proud and made him promise to kill Voldemort, and Dumbledore, in his infinite yet world-weary compassion, would not have died in vain.

"They are creatures that are halfway between wizards and Dementors," Snape explained. "They do not fear death or magic as Dementors do, but instead of fleeing from the Patronus, they merely have no reckoning of the emotions that could make one."

"How would I kill one?"

"A very good question," Snape replied dryly, "one that I'm afraid is unanswerable."

"You mean—he is immortal? That he can't be killed, that there isn't a way?"

"No," Snape said irritably, "that is not what I said—"

"YES IT IS!" Harry snapped, breathing hard. "That is what you said, you said that there isn't a way to kill him, that any sort of fighting would be in vain, that we have lost before we have begun, that—"

"_Harry_," said Snape in a voice that took away all the ire from Harry's mind. He felt the hands again, gripping his shoulders firmly. The voice came from a slightly greater height, and Harry thought suddenly, This must be what it's like to have a father, this…

"We do not have very much time left," Snape continued with a quiet urgency. "There are certain things of… personal nature that I felt best to inform you." The urgency quivered, and suddenly Snape paused. "I must tell you that—" He took a deep breath, and Harry was once again too much aware of his heartbeat. The silence stretched. Harry felt that they were teetering on the edge of a cliff, their breathing the wind and his heartbeat the dropping of sand in the hourglass. "Dumbledore wrote in his will that we should not mourn overmuch for him," Snape said at last, letting out the words with the breath he had been holding.

"Oh," said Harry, not knowing quite what to say. "He… he was prepared, then."

"Yes," said Snape, his voice sounding like an echo. "He was prepared." Harry felt the hands on his shoulder slowly decrease their pressure, and then slip away like dead leaves from branches.

"How much time is there?" Harry asked, after a pause.

"A minute," Snape said. "Two at most."

Harry swallowed. I have to say _something_, he thought desperately. He thought hard, furiously, for something to say, but he found nothing. His mind seemed to be a desert, bleak and bare and lonely, cracking under the heat of things he didn't know how to put into words.

"Neville testified against me," Harry said at last. He felt Snape stiffening, so he continued quickly, "Don't hold it against him, it's just as terrible for him. He—he's very lonely, and he—"

"Don't make excuses for that dimwit."

"No!" Harry insisted. "You understand, too, what it must feel like for him, to be all alone…" He trailed off, uncertain how to continue, once again feeling as though he had stumbled into forbidden territory he had not dared enter before. Still Snape said nothing, and so he continued, hesitantly, "That's—Neville's situation, really. He's—stuck." Harry took a deep breath. "And that's what everyone wants… isn't it? To be loved. Not to be alone."

He waited, though for what he didn't know. He held his breath, and then shifted, the silence making him feel awkward and uncomfortable. He felt… ashamed, as though he had peeled away all the anger and strength and determination to reveal the frightened and lonely child still at his core. Why'd I have to say something so stupid? he thought irritably. Why'd I have to say that?

"How much time's left?" he asked, just so the silence wouldn't continue.

But before Snape could reply, there was a clanking outside, and Harry heard footsteps approaching. Snape stiffened, and Harry reluctantly stepped back, feeling a terrible sense of loss as he thought of all the things he might have said and would never say. I never even called him 'Father,' Harry realized with a dreadful pang. Not even once…

"Done with your little chat?" Cinna asked in a solicitous voice. "Hmm?"

"We are quite done," Harry said in a hard, brittle voice. "Thank you very much, Mr. Cinna."

"Ah… so your father told you about your most unfortunate expulsion," said Cinna. "Well, it saves me the trouble, then. Come along Severus. I don't think you'd want to stay here in this nasty little room, no matter how sentimental you feel about your son…"

Snape stirred, as though he had suddenly come to life. "Sentimental?" he sneered. Harry heard movement of footsteps, the loud clanking of the closing of the door, the pause as his father stopped.

"Harry," said Snape in his usual, cool tone, "do keep in mind that your claims of loneliness are rather exaggerated. There are yet two Snapes in this world. You and I."

And then, without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall and in Harry's mind until Harry knew the sounds that resonated with his heart could only be his wistful imagination.

"But I wonder," Cinna murmured, and Harry jumped, for he had nearly forgotten that Cinna was still there, "how long before there is only one Snape left in this world."

Harry stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Cinna moved closer to the bars, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to fill the room the same way it had in the courtroom. "Tell me, what did Dumbledore say about me before he died?"

"That you bet your soul to him," Harry said stiffly.

"But he didn't really believe he had my soul, did he?" Cinna sighed. "Ah, what a disappointment, that the 'greatest wizard of our age' would be so blind as not to see what power he really held in his hands…"

Harry laughed harshly. "Maybe he was blind, for he didn't see what a treacherous—monster you were."

Cinna made a noncommittal sound. "I never swore any allegiance to him, you know. He wanted the best in everyone, and I daresay he was too frightened of me to imagine that I would betray him. But don't worry. I didn't poison him."

Harry moved closer to the bars. "Then who did?"

"Voldemort, of course!" Cinna exclaimed as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You can't imagine our fledgling Dark Lord would waltz into the castle in another's body and simply do _nothing_…"

"But he can't have, Dumbledore was poisoned weeks after Voldemort fled the castle—"

Harry stopped as Cinna made a tsk-tsking sound. "Time activated poisons work wonderfully well," Cinna said, "especially those activated by the full moon. It was the sherbet lemons, you know. Good thing you didn't eat any, or you'd have died as well."

Harry remembered with terrible clarity those innocent little sweets Dumbledore had been so fond of. If he, Harry, had felt only a bit hungrier, or the guilt in his heart slightly less hampered by his bitterness and pride, he might have taken one and ended up as yet another still, waxen corpse…

"But don't worry about vengeance," Cinna murmured. "Just be a good little boy and stay here quietly without making trouble…"

"You can't defeat him," Harry said coolly. "Only I have that power. It was spoken in the Prophecy."

"Oh, Trelawney's Prophecy," Cinna said in a bored tone. "Prophecies apply only if you let them apply to you, silly boy. Anyway," his voice became brisk, "I heard you have a particular aversion to Dementors."

Harry tensed. "Really?"

"You should be thanking me, you know, for saving you from Azkaban—"

"That was my father, not you," Harry snapped.

"—but considering how stubborn you are, I think you'll need a bit of company," Cinna finished coldly.

Harry swallowed hard and felt a chill wrap around his spine like a clammy hand. He was aware suddenly of something hovering in front of his face, and he darted aside, his chains clinking piercingly.

Cinna laughed. "I'm not going to harm you," he said. "I'm just waiting for you to harm yourself. And you'll have no one to rescue you this time, I assure you. The only one who might have has been dealt with."

Harry shivered, but he steeled himself and demanded, "What do you mean?"

Harry could hear the smile in Cinna's voice as strongly as he could feel the pain from his fingernails pressed sharply into his palms. "Why, that rogue house-elf, Dobby… House-elves have much more power than wizards like to think, but you needn't worry about his fate either, Mr. Potter."

"You—what did you do to him?"

"It doesn't matter," said Cinna in a bored, dismissive tone. "Anyway… it is a rather cold cell you have here." He stopped, pausing for a moment, and then turned around, and was gone.

qpqpqp

Harry stood absolutely still for a moment, keeping his face an iron mask until he was sure the silence was complete, and Cinna had truly left. Then he let out a shuddering breath and slid to the ground.

Here he was, alone in a cell, and in the world outside… He rubbed his face and felt his throat ache. Outside, Hermione was under a spell as terrible as the Imperius, and Dumbledore was laid to rest and mourned and as lifeless as a wax statue, and the snake was without a soul and now without a body, and Draco was a rotting corpse somewhere in the world. Was his body buried, or laid out for the dogs and crows? At least give him a proper burial, Harry thought feverishly. At least grant him that, at least grant him that…

And my father, Harry thought, a shiver running down his spine. He would be alone, too. The world would think he corrupted me, and they would make him miserable for it. Harry shuddered again as a wave of guilt overwhelmed him—it was his fault again, they were both alone, but Snape was suffering the terrified hatred of the rest of the world, while Cinna watched on with that loathsome smile…

But he doesn't hate me, Harry reminded himself. He said that I, too, am a Snape. I am his son. He doesn't hate me. He doesn't hate me.

Harry rubbed as much of his arms as he could reach with his manacled hands. Cinna was right; the cell _was_ cold. And it was getting colder.

Perhaps the coldness was coming from the corridor outside, Harry thought as he got to his feet. He wished he had worn shoes—socks, at least—for the ground felt like ice. But the thought led him to that of the snake, and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to suppress the terrible hollow feeling in his chest. I mustn't let them have died in vain, thought Harry as he shuffled to the back of the cell.

He felt something brush his face.

He jumped back, hands stretching in front of him with the silent thieves quivering at his fingertips.

"Who's there?" Harry demanded harshly. Silence answered him. "Caius Cinna," Harry shouted, "I know it's you!"

He shifted so that his back was to one of the walls.

"Show yourself!" Harry snarled.

The sound of his fear, of his pounding heart and rapid breathing, seemed to twist and bend in the silence into something seething. Swallowing hard, he edged towards the back of the cell.

His fingers touched cloth. He stiffened and withdrew his hand, but, as he held himself as still as air before the storm, no other movement greeted him. Slowly, he reached out again, and once more touched the cloth. It felt rough and cold, and when he took his hands away and hesitantly sniffed them, he felt an overwhelming urge to retch.

What is this? he thought, sweeping his hand up to where the face would have been. There was nothing, except a peg holding the cloth at what had to be a hood. But the peg hadn't been there before, thought Harry. This must be Cinna's doing…

He wrinkled his nose. The stench was stronger than ever, and as it crept through his body, reminding him of the dankness of coffins and their long-rotting bodies, he shivered uncontrollably. The air was cold, and it seemed to creep deep under his skin and clench his heart. What _was_ this thing that Cinna had hung in the cell; what _was_ this—

Then, as Harry felt at the empty sleeves, he realized where he had felt this coldness and smelt this smell. This was a Dementor's cloak.

Just as the thought passed into his mind, Harry felt a movement in front of him, and he jumped back. But even as he did so, the stench seemed to sear his brain with its intensity, and he felt the sleeves fit around his arms, the back against his back, the hood enshrouding his face like a Dementor's clammy and skeletal hands—

He tore desperately at the cloak, ripping it off and flinging it down at the ground before darting to the opposite corner. His breaths came in deep, terrified gulps, and he shivered, not only from the fear that stabbed his heart, but also from the relentless cold.

I'm going to freeze to death, thought Harry. He had never been this cold before, not when he had been younger and huddling in his cupboard, his blanket too thin and small to cover his skinny legs. Cinna's making this cell get colder and colder until I freeze… But he can't kill me, Harry thought desperately. Only Voldemort can. The Prophecy said so. But Cinna said that Prophecies apply only to those who allow it, a voice whispered in Harry's mind. And it wouldn't be him killing me, it would be myself. He shivered uncontrollably. It's so—very cold—

He forced himself into as small a ball as he could. He couldn't feel the ends of his fingers, and there was a low, throbbing pain in his ears. But that pain, too, was getting weaker and weaker as numbness seeped through his being.

Let me out, Harry pleaded. Let me out.

He shifted so that the palms of his hands and his face were pressed against the cold stone floor. I am the last Heir, I am Slytherin's Heir. Let me out, please. Hogwarts, hear me now in my time of need. Let me out. He squeezed his eyes tight together, so tightly that he was trembling not only from the cold but from the force of his command. _Let me out_.

But when he opened his eyes, the cold was still gnawing his bones, the hands he could no longer feel were still pressed against the floor, and the world was still an endless field of white. I can't, thought Harry, I can't escape. He must—he must mean for me to wear the cloak. That's what he wants me to do. To wear the cloak.

He huddled into a tighter ball. Then, as slowly as an old man moving from his deathbed, he reached out a hand and crept towards the Dementor's cloak. The sound of his chains was like metal over ice, and finally, with the cold pressing down on him like a tremendous weight, he vaguely felt the cloak touch his forearms.

His fingers could not obey him anymore, so he fumbled for a long time, wondering which end was the top and which was the bottom. But as he pulled himself closer into himself and nearer to the ground, he felt the coldness ebb, and as he lifted his face in wonder, he felt the coarse edge of the cloak touch his cheek and smelt the reek of death.

I mustn't fall asleep, he thought. I won't die—he can't kill me, only Voldemort can. I will live. And I won't let him turn me into a Dementor. I just mustn't fall asleep. He shut his mouth tight and squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly so that his hair fell over his ears, as though to prevent the Dementor's breath from entering his body. I just mustn't fall asleep, that's all… I just mustn't fall asleep…

_He was in one of the hallways of Hogwarts, though the world was still a shimmering expanse of white. The sound of voices and footsteps swirled around him, but certain voices leapt out_…

"_Loony Lovegood! Loony, Loony!"_

"_Still think that Potter's innocent? Still think that neither the Veritaserum nor the Priori Incantatem were enough?"_

"_Maybe she's a traitor. Maybe she's a Death Eater in disguise."_

"_Naw, she's too crazy for that. She's loony, Loony Lovegood!"_

"_Loony Luna!"_

_The whiteness tore itself apart, and suddenly there was light: reddish light of a fireplace, shadows from people whose faces could not be seen, a strange haze that seeped sluggishly around the outlines of all the people. The haze dissolved like fog under the sun, and he was looking into eyes, eyes that were achingly familiar: Hermione's eyes._

"_So do you still think he's innocent?" asked a low voice, so close it must have been next to her ear. "Do you still think he didn't do it?"_

"_No," Hermione whispered emotionlessly. "I was wrong. He's guilty."_

"_You were wrong all along, weren't you? I was right. You should have listened to me."_

"_Yes," said Hermione, and a head full of flaming red hair obscured one of Hermione's blank, lifeless eyes._

"_I was right," Ron murmured, his face against her face, his eyes shut and face expressionless. "I was right all along, I was right_…"

"_Yes_…" _Hermione whimpered, and tears pooled in her empty eyes, flickering with white, roaring like a fire, drowning out voices, noises, words, until all that could be heard was a sound like a dry and mournful wind whispering across a desert._

"_Harry_…_"_

_A shape like a dying animal reared and strained behind a curtain. It moaned, arching its back and flinging itself about. Then the blanket came off and Neville sat up and stared ahead glassily, his face as pale as a glacier, his thin body trembling like a reed in the wind._

"_I'm sorry, Harry," he whispered. "I—I didn't mean to, I didn't_… _please forgive me_…_"_

_Something flashed silver, and then red bled across the sheets, two full drops like blossoms on a tree at the end of winter. The redness bloomed as a stunned voice quavered unseen and Neville stuttered with shame, shame and misery, intertwining like the hollow under ribs, a mouth open wide in silent agony._

"_Father_…_"_

_Red light, sickly bright in the darkness, then instantly fading back into the eeriness of the world under the full moon._

"_Your father died, boy! Your friend killed him with his snake!"_

_Draco's eyelids lifted and shut like the wings of a dying moth. "Father_…_"_

"_Too late!" snarled the voice, or voices, a chorus of masked and hooded figures driven mad by fear and the full moon. "Too late!"_

_But Draco's eyes, so large and clear they seemed to shimmer like a shadow at the bottom of a lake, moved slightly as the eyelids slid half-shut, and the cracked and bloodied lips moved wearily, mouthed, "Harry_…_?"_

_The lifeless body on the dark grass, the pale, bruised limbs ripped from each other, red splattering the bloodless skin, entrails and organs scattered pitifully across the ground, the boy utterly destroyed and no longer recognizable as a pile of broken bone peering from the mass of torn flesh and lacerated skin, but the head, eyes still half-open and lips as pale as skin, face-down in the dirt_—

_A table. Parchments everywhere. A chair, bare ceilings, hopelessly disorganized bookcases. A cauldron bubbling. Crouched before it was a man in a black cloak, hunched over the fire and gazing unseeingly into the frothing liquid._

_He suddenly shut his eyes tight, as though seized by an inexorable nightmare from the past, and rocked back and forth, back and forth, trembling uncontrollably. He ran a hand absently through his hair, stirred the concoction vaguely, blinked without seeing._

"_Hold on, Harry," he muttered. "Hold on, you're not alone_…_" He trembled again and cringed, as though some unseen person before him was preparing to strike. "I w-won't lose you too. You—must—live." He shuddered. "Hold on, Harry, hold on_…_ Hold on_…_"_

_Snape lifted his face as though to glare fiercely at his tormenter. "You won't have him, Cinna! Nor you, V-Voldemort! He is mine—my flesh, my kin, my son!"_

Harry jerked violently.

Immediately the coldness attacked his exposed limbs, and he curled himself back into the ball, still under the Dementor's cloak.

Had he fallen asleep? He must have. Then—had he dreamed? Were those things his dreams? Nightmares? But they didn't feel like dreams. They felt too terribly real.

Hermione, thought Harry, seeing again the images like flashes of color. Neville. Draco. Ron. Father.

The castle groaned.

Abruptly, he flung the cloak off his shoulders. The cold blasted him, but he ignored it. He bit his right pinky fiercely, then felt at it, making sure that it was bleeding. Then, flattening a section of the Dementor's cloak as best he could with manacled hands, he drew a vague rectangle.

There, he thought, mind numb with the cold. A frame.

He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, and he couldn't tell how much blood he had lost, or if his finger was still bleeding. The castle groaned again, rumbling like it had the night of the attack. I need to draw a picture now, he thought. Any picture—anything. But his mind was blank, too exhausted and cold to think.

A tree, he thought at last as the castle shuddered under his knees. I can always manage a tree.

His hand was trembling so badly he didn't think he was touching the cloth half the time, and he had forgotten where the edges of the frame were; but he traced the vague outlines of the top of a tree, the horizon, the trunk, roots.

Now to put this on a wall, he thought, and tore fiercely at the cloak. It ripped with surprising ease, but his arm was shaking so bad that in the end, he had to use his teeth. He spat after he finished, and couldn't help retching: the reek seemed to coat his mouth like mold.

Just… just to enter it now, he thought, crawling and groping to the wall. He clenched his jaw so that his teeth would no longer chatter like the rattling of pebbles in an empty skull. Let this work, he thought with as much concentration as he could muster. Please let this work. As the castle groaned torturously, he reached up his good hand and held the cloth as best he could against the wall.

He licked his dry, cracked lips. "L-Let me i-i-in—n," he mumbled, pushing his other hand against the middle of the picture. "I'm th-the H-_Heirrr_, le—t m-meee _inn_—" He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed with the effort, shaking uncontrollably—

He fell forward. For a moment he was too stunned to anything, too paralyzed by the shock of warm air. Then he scrambled forward, crawling over the frame with clumsy, ungainly movements—

There was a loud tearing sound behind him. He froze, heart slamming against his ribcage. Nothing happened. He continued, his mind and limbs thawing as he moved cautiously—

The tearing noise came again, an unearthly scream. Harry sped up, stumbling as fast as he could into the portrait, and then, after feeling the tinge of magic, hurled himself against it as the ripping sound screeched deafeningly behind him—

He was lying on… grass. The feeling was gradually returning to his legs and hands and face. I made it, he thought, listening to his breathing slowly even out. I made it. I'm out. He relaxed and let himself go limp as relief flooded through his exhausted body. I'm alive…

He turned onto his side—and felt something touch his face.

He jerked back, but he knew what it was the moment the reek filled his nostrils. It's followed me into the world of paintings, Harry thought. The Dementor's cloak.

He got unsteadily to his feet. It hasn't turned me into a Dementor yet, Harry thought. Maybe the only real thing about it was the fear and the despair. He hesitated, remembering still the terrible stench and the cold that cleaved through flesh and froze his bones. But the castle groaned again, an excruciating tremble, and he quickly grabbed the cloak with his unwounded hand and darted into another painting.

The corridors were utterly silent, and Harry wondered briefly if it was day or night, if Voldemort was launching another attack in the darkness. He didn't know where he was going, but his feet carried him as surely as if they were guided by another hand. As he raced from painting to painting, it dawned on his mind that he was heading towards the Great Hall—

He froze.

"…impressive, how you dispatched Donovan. I couldn't have done better myself."

It was Voldemort's voice, but the realization registered only numbly in Harry's mind. He could _see_ things—not humans, colors, shapes, but shimmering ripples in the whiteness, the same as he had seen on the night of the attack, moments before he had lost consciousness. But now, the world outside seemed to teem with them, waving gently as the veil in the Department of Mysteries.

"Dumbledore himself could not have done better…"

"Indeed," Cinna murmured in reply. "And certainly you know how to flatter better than he did."

"I thought you might enjoy it before your death," said Voldemort, and as he spoke, the ripples seemed to stir like branches shivering in an icy wind.

"Do you really think you can kill me?" Cinna said in a soft voice. "Do you think you can even come close to me…?"

Voldemort laughed, a sound that swelled until Harry had to stifle the urge to cover his ears and curl into a ball once more. "How close do you consider 'close,' Caius Cinna?"

Harry could hear the smile in Cinna's voice. "Past this line, Mr. Riddle…"

The disturbances in the whiteness shivered, as though from anger that rippled out from the center. Harry frowned as the shimmer in the middle moved closer. Is that Voldemort? Harry wondered, edging away from the center of the portrait. If that is he, what are those shimmering things flanking him…?

Voldemort's laughter swelled again, screaming like a dusty tornado. "A pity, Cinna, that your tricks fail against me. You may have all the magic in the world, but against me it is useless."

"Really," Cinna said coldly, but the smile was gone from his voice.

The shimmer in the middle—the one that was Voldemort—moved closer, and Harry could now see that behind the ripples, beyond the flickering expanse of whiteness, was a darkness so deep he moved one hand unconsciously to hold the frame of the portrait. He remembered instantly where he had seen that unending darkness: the empty mouths of the Dementors, the gaping blackness beneath their tattered cloaks, the same that he had seen moments before his mind had left the snake in Lucius Malfoy's mouth…

Harry heard a sudden shout and heard what might have been a small explosion, and Voldemort drew back and spat in fury. The shimmers around him moved, descending like clouds from a mountaintop onto something Harry could not see.

"_Snape_…" Voldemort hissed, and Harry's heart clenched with horror. A knot of shimmers rippled as though something were struggling, writhing silently against their grasp, but the thrashing seemed to weaken, and before long Harry heard a faint moan.

Without even thinking, Harry lunged at the boundary between the worlds. Let me out! he thought furiously. LET ME OUT! He shifted so that both hands, one still holding the Dementor's cloak, were pushing with all his strength against the boundary. LET—ME—

He tumbled out and fell to the floor, the hard stones thudding painfully against his elbows and knees. But the pain was numbed by the sudden cold he felt, and for a moment he was utterly bewildered, wondering if he had somehow returned to his cell; but the air was open, different, full of frightened whispers and the rattling breathing of—

He looked up. The shimmers loomed above him, rippling in unison with their hissing breaths, and Harry knew that they were Dementors.

"Potter…" Voldemort whispered, and Harry felt a momentary satisfaction at the surprise in Voldemort's voice. "So, you have come to join us…"

Without waiting, Harry flung out his hand and felt the silver needles leave his fingertips. A brief flash lit up the Dementors suddenly, like lightning in a ransacked graveyard, but brilliance died as quickly as it came, and the shimmers continued to ripple as gently as the ocean waves.

"Your needles are useless against me, boy," Voldemort hissed, but Harry heard an undercurrent of resentment. "Slytherin might have mistakenly given you what should have been mine, but no matter… There is more to his inheritance than your little _thieves_…"

Harry tuned out Voldemort's voice. The Dementors were gathered in a vague circle, rippling delicately to an invisible wind, cornering him like an impenetrable forest. Where's Snape? Harry wondered desperately, looking at the periphery of the circle. They haven't—Kissed him, have they? Please no, please—

Then he saw a small clump of Dementors drifting at one side like a knot in the grain. Harry darted forward, but before he had taken more than a few steps, he felt clammy hands grip his arms painfully, and coldness and despair took him like a blast of death. Voldemort laughed, his words like shards of glass whipped about in the furious storm, but Harry heard only the sound of screaming, begging… The white was tinged with green, pounding down at him like sheets of ice, and hands crawled over his body, hissing with loathing, forcing into him and making him sick with shame. But at the core of it, crushing his heart like the executioner's axe, were those words and that voice, venomous with hate, telling him no, freezing the hope that had bloomed timidly in his heart, destroying everything and leaving him alone again, alone…

But there was a slight lull in the despair, like the pause before an even more terrible onslaught, and Harry thought laboriously, No, that's not true. I'm not alone. He said so, and he's right here, right next to me.

"…you think that you really were the Heir, when he has given me spells to such power?"

Harry concentrated on the present, on the memory of his father's last words to him, clinging even at Voldemort's voice, and the storm of despair ebbed enough for him to hear the words that echoed like the roaring of a ghostly sea. "I have become an _ieiunita_, Potter… I am unreachable, truly immortal…"

I wish he knew what he looked like with the Water of Sight, thought Harry wearily. He looks like a very dirty towel someone dropped into a cauldron of tar… So he's an _ieiunita_, just like Malfoy was. But the snake managed to kill Malfoy. How? By being Kissed. Harry felt his heart sink even as he steeled himself with determination. Was that it, then? to be Kissed…?

"And though your needles can steal souls, so can I," Voldemort whispered. "Of course, you will not be the first, Potter. I think you would enjoy it if you could see your _father_ go first…"

Harry's heart clenched. "NO!" he shouted. "DON'T TOUCH HIM YOU—PATHETIC—" He struggled, but the clammy hands pulled him back, and despair clutched gleefully at his heart, choking him with the futility of his efforts. "Don't… _touch _him… you—" Voldemort approached, moving at a tauntingly slow pace. "You _halfblood_!" Harry snarled, hawking up his phlegm and spitting it furiously in Voldemort's direction.

"_Crucio_."

Harry screamed and writhed, falling in a heap to the ground as pain overwhelmed him, smashing aside all his defenses, crushing his mind as his muscles contracted uncontrollably. Then the agony disappeared, and Harry panted weakly, a trembling heap on the ground. Clammy hands gripped his head. He felt them turning his face so that he was staring unseeingly at his father.

"You may be blind, Potter," Voldemort whispered, his shimmering form slowly bending, "but I know that you drank the Water of Sight…" Harry heard a faint gasp from his father as Voldemort drew closer. "I know that you can see this…"

With a sudden surge of strength, Harry wrenched free and stumbled forward. He slammed one fist as hard as he could into Voldemort's direction, but the chains around his wrists curtailed his movement, and he stumbled and fell from exhaustion as Voldemort's laughter echoed in his ears. Then, as his consciousness wavered, as he felt his father's body shivering at his side and heard the low keening sound of his father's despair, he gripped the Dementor's cloak in both hands and haphazardly flung it into the air—

And Voldemort screamed.

The scream cut across all his senses like an explosion of ice. Harry clutched his head and curled himself tightly into a ball, vaguely aware of his father's body next to him. The scream continued, rattling his skull, piercing his brain and tunneling down his spine, scraping desperately over his skin like memories he could not forget.

Then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Harry lifted his head, not knowing what had happened, not knowing what to think. His heard thudded deafeningly in his ears, but above his pounding heartbeat, he could hear, louder than ever, the rattling hiss of the Dementor's breath.

The shimmering figures were so close he could see behind them, could almost feel himself falling into the endless darkness. The ripple closest to him seemed to writhe, half-formed, and Harry tried in vain to pull his father out of the way. It's Voldemort, Harry realized, only he's become— he's become—

The shimmer that had been Voldemort trembled, shuddered like a dead tree caught in a bitter wind, and Harry heard the almost inaudible clatter of a wand dropping to the floor. Voldemort's wand, Harry realized, still staring at the ripples in the air. He dropped it because he doesn't need it anymore. He's become a Dementor…

The cold and despair deepened, bearing down on him until his hands were icy and sweaty with fear, his heart pounding with terror, his entire being weighed down with utter hopelessness. But beneath all the memories that crawled over his skin, beneath all the overwhelming misery and desolation, he felt his father's trembling body. They can't make me feel alone—not anymore, he thought fiercely. Clenching his teeth, he lunged forward and groped at where he had heard Voldemort's wand fall—and quickly took the length of wood just as he felt the hem of a ragged cloak brush his arm.

This is it, he thought. This is the last lunge, the last battle. Curiously, the despair didn't seem as heavy as it did before, nor the coldness as sharp. It's because I'm not alone, he thought. It's because I've felt pain before, pain and loneliness and despair, and I've survived. And now I'm not alone. Father's here, right next to me, and Draco—Draco's dead, but I'll never forget him, he won't have lost his life in vain, and Hermione, she's trapped by Cinna's spell, but there's hope, there will always be hope, and Luna, brave Luna, and Neville, poor Neville, I forgive him, I wish I could tell him that, and Ron—not just the old Ron, not just the Ron who was my best friend, but even this Ron, for I never stopped loving him, and Dumbledore who loved me but was lonelier than I, and Sirius, who's with James and Mum and Slytherin now, though they never really left me… I'm not alone…

I'm not alone.

He raised his wand in the air, right into the swirling of cloaks and past the clammy hands and rattling breaths, breaking through the memories of hate and loathing and pain and misery like the sun bursting through clouds.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_ he shouted, his throat so ravaged by his earlier screams he could barely hear his own voice above the rattling hiss of the Dementor's breaths. "_EXPECTO—PATRONUM!"_

He felt the magic exploding from the end of the wand, and saw a burst of—_something_ against the blank whiteness of his vision. The shimmers fluttered like bits of cloth in a mighty gale, and the Dementors screamed, the chorus of their voices a terrible echo of Voldemort's scream, but this time, Harry felt his entire being caught up in emotions so strong he barely registered the Dementor's last shriek. I'm not afraid, or cold, or miserable, he realized with wonderment as his vision seared with brilliance. I'm not afraid anymore… I might almost be… happy…

He felt himself falling, falling through voices shouting, yelling, past all sensation. He thought he heard Neville hollering something, thought he could hear his father's voice; but then he felt a curious sensation pooling through his body, and finally, darkness fell.


	23. Epilogue

**Chapter 23: Epilogue**

Harry slowly opened his eyes. All he saw was whiteness, as blank and pure as a field of snow. But he could feel cloth under his hands, and the smell that entered his nostrils was familiar. I must be in the hospital wing, he thought, and tried to sit up, but found that the effort excruciating enough to make him fall back unceremoniously onto his pillow.

He heard the sound of curtains being drawn, and—

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "You're awake!"

Harry opened and closed his mouth like a fish on land before his face broke into a disbelieving smile. "Hermione? You're—are you—"

"I'm me again," Hermione finished cheerfully. "Finally. It's awful being controlled by someone else. It's like I'm stuck in my body, with someone else forcing words into my mouth and making me do things." She paused. "I—well, Cinna forced me to testify against you, but… I didn't mean a single word of it, and I wish I had fought harder—"

"It's all right," Harry interrupted, smiling. "I… as long as you're okay now."

"I've Professor Snape to thank," Hermione said. "He brewed me a potion earlier today, and I feel…" She sighed blissfully. Then she added thoughtfully, "I'll need to buy your dad a present."

"Dad?" Harry blurted. "I—well, I never thought of calling him _dad_." Hermione laughed, her voice more carefree than Harry could remember. He smiled, listening to her laughter, but he became somber again as memory returned. He tried to force the words to form. "I don't remember all that happened," he said slowly, "but is Voldemort…"

"Voldemort is dead," Hermione said gently. "You did it. You—ended him."

Ended. Voldemort. Dead. It took Harry a full moment to digest the words, to truly embrace the notion. I managed it after all, he thought with an almost giddy feeling bubbling through him. I did it. The Prophecy is fulfilled. Voldemort is gone. He blinked stupidly and couldn't suppress a smile.

"It's mind-boggling, isn't it?" said Hermione, sounding cheerful once more. "And you did it in the Great Hall, right in front of everyone. I didn't know how to feel at first, partly because I was still stuck in Cinna's magic, but then I became so happy that I became myself for a moment or two before your dad fed me that potion."

Harry wondered if Hermione was going to make a habit of calling Snape his 'dad.' He didn't think he'd ever get used to it. "But how did I do it?" Harry asked a moment later. "He was a Dementor the last I remember. How did I—end him?" And the Horcruxes, he thought. What about them?

"It was your Patronus," Hermione said. She paused a moment before continuing. "There aren't any more Dementors in the world, Harry. Your Patronus made them disappear."

Harry turned his face and gazed dumbly, blindly in Hermione's direction. "What?"

"After you performed _Expecto Patronum_, the Dementors all vanished," Hermione explained. "Nobody's seen them since. Some people think they may be hiding, but ever since what you did, nobody's caught sight of even one."

It was, perhaps, even more mind-boggling than the fact that Voldemort was gone. He, Harry, had somehow managed to get rid of all the Dementors in the world by using his Patronus, which he was sure wasn't supposed to accomplish such a feat. It was… how was it even possible?

"But I don't understand," Harry said. "How could my Patronus have destroyed them?"

"I don't know, and, well"—Hermione shifted—"we can't ask Dumbledore anymore, can we?"

"No," Harry said. "We can't. But it's—it's—"

"Incredible, I know," said Hermione. "They'll be revising all the Dark Arts books after this. Well, besides putting in everything about you having defeated the most terrible Dark Lord ever and then eradicated the most terrible Dark creatures to roam the Earth…"

Harry groaned, and Hermione laughed. But underneath, Harry felt himself buoyed on a wave of disbelieving wonderment and relief. The Dementors are gone, he thought. They're _gone_. "What happened after the Dementors disappeared?"

"Then you fainted," Hermione said matter-of-factly, "and everyone was staring blankly at where the Dementors—and Voldemort—had been. But just as everyone dared to move again, Caius Cinna ran up to you and snarled something about you being Dumbledore's boy. Then he—tried to throttle you. It was horrible, Harry. He looked absolutely bloodthirsty."

"Oh…" said Harry, feeling at his neck. "That can't have been good." Harry tried to imagine what Cinna in a murderous rage must have looked and sounded like. The look of smugness had been creepy enough. "I'm not dead, obviously," said Harry. "So… what happened?"

"Neville saved your life," Hermione said. "He jumped forward and tried to _Stupefy_ Cinna."

Neville, thought Harry, remembering the Gryffindor's stuttering voice in the courtroom, remembering the dream (or vision?) he had had in the cell, of Neville's pale face and the splash of blood on white sheets. I hope his grandmother isn't giving him a difficult time, thought Harry. She had better not, a voice in his mind hissed fiercely. "Did it work?"

"It seemed to work halfway, which was much more than what the Death Eaters managed."

"Death Eaters?"

"Yes—I forgot, that was before you somehow tumbled out of a portrait. You'll have to tell me, later, how on Earth you managed to do that."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, though he himself wasn't too sure. "But what happened afterwards?"

"Cinna swept Neville aside, but it wasn't nearly as powerful a move as before, when Cinna had been fighting the Death Eaters. Cinna staggered up and wrapped his hands around your neck again, but then your dad—Professor Snape—had got up, and he literally threw himself at Cinna, and they ended up in a heap on the floor."

"Then?" Harry prompted, wondering why Hermione had paused.

"Then Professor Snape got out his own wand and pointed it at Cinna. But Cinna stopped moving, and after your dad backed off, Cinna began to—change. His face got all sunken in, and he looked so old, like an ancient man. And then the clothes he had been wearing crumbled into dust, and when the dust fell away, he turned into a shriveled corpse." Harry could almost feel Hermione shudder. "It was… disgusting. He looked as though he'd been dead for absolute years."

A shriveled corpse… Immediately Harry had the image of a Dementor's hand, shriveled and clammy and skeletal. Was that what Cinna had become?

"And then?"

"And then your father commanded everyone to get out of the way, and he scooped you up in his arms, and he carried you here to the hospital wing—or I'm assuming he took you here, I was still paralyzed, and nobody noticed for the longest time I was just sitting there—"

"He _carried_ me here?" Harry blurted out, feeling his face flush.

"He—" Hermione stopped. "Good evening, Professor Snape."

Harry felt even more blood flooding into his face. He tried to maintain a calm expression as he said, "Good evening…" He stopped. Father? Professor?

"I'll see you later, Harry," Hermione said, excused herself, and left, her footsteps fading away down the hospital wing.

Snape cleared his throat and lowered himself in the seat Hermione had been in. "Good evening." A pause. "Harry."

Harry smiled involuntarily. It was like an unspoken permission. "Father," he said and shifted in his bed. "So… Is Voldemort… dead?"

"As far as we can tell, yes."

"But what about the Horcruxes? Unless you—or someone—managed to destroy them all beforehand, Voldemort should still be alive and floating somewhere."

Snape moved, as though to take something out of his robes. "The Horcruxes have lost their power," he said softly. "Here, take this," he said, pressing something round and metallic into Harry's palm. "It is yours by right."

Harry fingered the object, his mind still reeling from the contact of his father's hand with his own. "What is this?" he said at last.

"An object that used to be a Horcrux, and one of the heirlooms of the Slytherin line," said Snape. "It was found, of all places, in the old Gringotts vault of the Black family."

"Black—you mean…" He wanted to say Sirius, but he bit his tongue.

"Yes, Sirius Black," Snape finished, and his voice was only a little tight. "His, and now your, vault."

Harry ran his thumb over the surface. There was a raised 'S' on one side, and, feeling one end of it, he realized that the 'S' was formed from a snake. A pang stabbed through his heart and tied a knot in his throat as he remembered the snake, which, had it been wound around his neck, would surely be lecturing him on the worth of this invaluable heirloom. Harry cleared his throat. "How did it get there? Did Voldemort mean to hide it there?"

"No," said Snape. "It was, in Dumbledore's opinion, highly unlikely that Voldemort should hide so valuable a thing in so mundane a place. And, even if he had planned to originally, he would have known by then that Sirius Black was a threat, and might easily take the Horcrux if he happened to wander into his family vault."

"Then how did it get there?" Harry asked, pressing at the edges of the object. Suddenly it opened, and Harry nearly dropped it in surprise. "It's—it's a locket."

"Yes, indeed it is," said Snape in a dryly amused tone.

"But how did it end up in the Black vault? And how did you know to look for it there?"

"We didn't—not specifically. Mundungus Fletcher and I went down to make sure the vault was secure, for it was bound to contain certain objects that the Dark Lord would have been most eager to obtain." He stopped. "That—Voldemort would have been most eager to obtain."

Harry smiled involuntarily. "Let me guess—Mundungus left with heavier pockets than when he entered, and you fished out this locket despite his earnest protests."

"Ah. I see that there is something in that skull of yours."

Harry laughed aloud. It felt wonderful to laugh; he couldn't remember the last time before Voldemort's death that he had let joy come out so openly. "But how did it end up in the vault in the first place?"

"It probably was not your godfather," Snape replied. "The locket was hidden rather haphazardly under a set of silver goblets. If Black—your godfather, I mean—had thought it important enough to hide, he would undoubtedly have showed it to Dumbledore. He was always very loyal, just like the—" He broke off and shifted slightly.

"So it wasn't Sirius," Harry said firmly, "then who was it?"

"Regulus Acamar Black."

"Sirius's brother? The one who tried to be a Death Eater but got killed when he tried to back out?"

"Yes," said Snape gravely, and something in his voice caught Harry's attention. Perhaps he's remembering the past, thought Harry. "It's certainly possible that Regulus should have stolen one of the Horcruxes before he died, a last, foolish attempt. In any case, the sliver of Voldemort's soul that had once been in that locket is there no more."

Harry ran his fingers over the inside of the locket. I wish I could see, Harry thought wistfully. "How?"

"We can only conjecture," Snape replied, "but it was, perhaps, the nature of the _ieiunita_. A Dementor is really just a vacuum, a lack of the soul, and in becoming the _ieiunita_, halfway between mortal and Dementor, Voldemort had connected his the parts of his soul in a way that undid all he had planned in the creation of his Horcruxes."

"And then," Harry continued, "by becoming a Dementor, his—he Kissed his own soul, is that it? All the pieces of his soul went down the drain that was his Dementor nature."

"Yes," Snape said, and there was something new in his voice, something that sounded almost like pride. Harry had to work hard not to grin like an idiot. So really, he thought, Voldemort undid himself. I just helped him on his way.

He remembered the taunts Voldemort had hissed just moments before his death. You spoke more truly than you knew, thought Harry. Slytherin did leave those spells for you. He did plan for you to be an _ieiunita_, so that the pieces of your soul could once more be inextricably linked.

But did Slytherin see that Caius Cinna would give me the Dementor's cloak? Harry wondered. And the Patronus I made: was it due to my ancestor's gift that it could destroy the Dementors? Did Slytherin foresee that, too?

I wonder what shape my Patronus took.

"There will be another hearing for Dumbledore's death," Snape said, "and after that, I'm afraid, you'll have your long awaited hearing with the Dursleys."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Are they still stuck in Grimmauld Place? Petunia and Dudley?"

"Yes," said Snape, "and they were… most reluctant at the prospect of being present in a wizard-run court." Harry could hear a tone of vindictive satisfaction in his father's voice. "I, of course, enlightened them on the luxurious conditions of the Ministry holding cells and the new prison on the Isle of Drear."

"Yeah," Harry said, smiling weakly. He wondered if the memory of Petunia standing there and letting him die would ever fade. "I'm sure they're looking forward to it."

"Most definitely," Snape said, standing up. "I have too many matters to attend to, Harry, though I wish I could stay longer…" He cleared his throat. "Minerva's finally awake, after whatever spell Cinna put on her in the first attack faded. But now, I have the questionable pleasure of assuming the position of deputy headmaster."

Harry smiled. No matter how much he tried hiding it under his layers of sarcasm, Snape sounded pleased. "Should I say congratulations or should I wish you luck before you get mobbed by reporters?"

"I think you should reserve all the luck for yourself. There's an army of reporters camped outside the hospital wing."

Harry groaned, and Snape chuckled.

"Father," Harry called as Snape began to leave.

"Yes?"

Harry took a deep breath before speaking. "I… you asked me before, and I said no, but—would it be feasible that I live in the dungeons?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Snape said in his normal, cool tone; and this time, Harry let the grin of joy spread over his entire face.

qpqpqp

It was the first snowfall of winter. Harry lifted his face to the sky and smiled blindly at the drifting snowflakes. They fell softly on his skin and melted away as gently as they came. Before him he could hear the lapping of the lake against the shore, and farther off, there was a splash. The giant squid, Harry thought, trying to piece together enough memories to recall what it had looked like. There were so many things he was beginning to forget.

He heard Hermione's footsteps long before she spoke. "Hey."

"Hey," he said, shifting aside so she could sit next to him.

"It's the first snow," she murmured, bumping her shoulder against his as she settled on the grass. "Funny, I thought the giant squid would go in hibernation already."

"It goes in hibernation?"

"Yes, didn't you know? It said so in _Hogwarts, a History_."

"Ah."

Hermione moved her legs into a more comfortable position. "Congratulations on the rulings. You got through both of them in one day. I don't think I'd have managed that."

He shrugged. "I wanted to get them over with," he said. The Ministry had obviously been very eager to glance over evidence of their mistakes, for, at his and Snape's suggestion, the two trials had been held on the same day, one in the morning and one at night.

"I'm glad I managed to testify as myself, and that Neville got to testify without his grandmother," said Hermione. "And Luna, without Cinna making her—without him making everyone not believe her."

"I should thank Luna for standing up for me twice," said Harry, "she's just as brave as any Gryffindor." Snape had told him a few days ago everything he had missed, including all that had happened during the first trial after he had taken the Veritaserum. Harry, in turn, had told him about the Chamber of Secrets, of his time in the portraits, of the frigid cell and the Dementor's cloak.

"How did you manage to escape those reporters?" Hermione asked. "You got back here even before I did."

Harry smiled slightly. "Back paths. And bodyguards." The Weasley siblings—Bill, Fred, and George—had gathered around him like a phalanx while Tonks led them out through one of the side doors. They had also given him a box of Mrs. Weasley's biscuits, and a snake fang from Egypt for his father. I suppose they're trying to make up for Ron, Harry thought. I wish I could tell them that they didn't have to do any of that.

"Ron's at Delphi," Hermione said, as though catching to Harry's line of thought. "Ginny told me that it's going well, supposedly."

Harry nodded, though he didn't know whether he should hope, or whether or not he did hope. Ron had been furious after Voldemort's death, and in the middle of the Minister's speech in the Great Hall about all their sacrifices and triumphs, he had stood and shouted something about Harry being the next Dark Lord. By the next day, he was in Greece with Charlie.

"I wonder what they did to Cinna's body," Harry said.

"Huh," said Hermione. "I never thought about that." She picked up and pebble and threw it with a plunk into the lake. "I did some research on the _ieiunita_."

"And?"

"I found pretty much nothing. The only mention of them was in a book on mediaeval myths. _Ieiunita_ aren't supposed to exist."

"But they do. Or at least, they did."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "Cinna was one, wasn't he? He became mortal and died when his cloak was destroyed, just like Voldemort turned into a Dementor without his soul."

"That's what Father and I think," said Harry, and he picked up a pebble and threw it into the lake as well.

"You remind me," Hermione said hesitantly, "of Draco. You know. When you say things like, 'my father,' 'Father and I,' phrases like that."

Harry nodded wordlessly.

"They… never found his body, did they?"

He shook his head and cleared his throat. "No. They didn't."

Harry felt Hermione's head lean tentatively against his shoulder. "I miss him," she whispered after a pause.

"Me too," said Harry. "And Dumbledore." And the snake, and Dobby, and Ron—the old Ron, his best friend. He wondered how long it would be before the grief, which pounced on him at unexpected times, when he was sitting in Snape's quarters or eating his breakfast or walking through the halls, would fade; and he wondered, too, how long it would be before he began to forget what the snake's comforting touch felt like, what Ron's brave smile looked like, what Draco's familiar drawl sounded like. Already things were dimming.

"How's your dad?"

"He's…" He paused for a moment, considering. "I think he's happy," Harry said sincerely.

Hermione moved closer. "Good. I'm glad."

"So am I," said Harry, moving an arm tentatively around Hermione's shoulder. The snow fell softly around them. I've still got Snape, Harry thought. I've still got him, and Hermione, and all the others. He lifted his face to the sky. I'm not alone.

_the end_

_A/N: First and foremost, many thanks to Procyon Black for helping me so much and so promptly. Without her, this story would definitely be less than what it is. Next, I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read this fic, who has let me reach out across cyberspace and (hopefully) move the reader. That is, after all, the ultimate goal of the author: to make the reader think, to move his or her emotions. And, of course, I'd have died somewhere on chapter seven without all the wonderful reviewers and their reviews_…

_Some of may have noticed the references I wrote into this story, such as those relating to Susan Cooper's Dark Is Rising series and the poetry of William Butler Yeats. I lay no claim to those works, and only wish to honor them by including them in my stories.  
_

_A few notes about the title: Prometheus, the Greek god who created humanity, rebelled against Zeus through many means, one of which was gifting humanity with fire. As punishment, he was shackled and nailed to Mount Caucasus, where an eagle came everyday to tear at his liver. His liver would grow back, and the bird would return to renew the torment. However, Zeus was unable to kill Prometheus, for Prometheus, alone of all the gods, knew the future, and could see how Zeus could be overthrown. Part of the punishment, therefore, was to force Prometheus to reveal that knowledge. But Prometheus withheld that knowledge until Zeus submitted in this test of wills and allowed Hercules to kill the eagle and set Prometheus free._

_The obvious parallel is that Harry is Prometheus, with all his troubles stemming from the tyrannical Zeuses: his relatives, his father, Voldemort. And though he at times nearly succumbs to the pressure, as he did with the scraping tree, he persists, and in the end is freed. Indeed, parallels to the myth of Prometheus can be seen whenever we meet obstacles and, after much toil, finally conquer them. However, just as Aeschylus's 'Prometheus Unbound' is now lost, we ourselves must find a way out of the darkness._


End file.
